And Then You Found Me
by Eridanus1123
Summary: Draco Malfoy has never needed help from anyone, thank you very much. But then again, he's never been stranded in New York city with a wand digging into his carotid artery. Help might come in the way he's least expecting it.
1. Hello, Love

_Chapter 1_

_Hello, Love_

Draco Malfoy: twenty years of age, blonde, immaculate, and exceptionally arrogant. With each year that passed, his head grew a little, and with those years, he tried to send some of his flaws. Of course, it hadn't really worked, otherwise he wouldn't be Draco Malfoy.

He stood in his bedroom, in front of his green bed, which was pressed against a green wall, with a green armchair in the corner, looking in the green mirror, which showed a reflection of his green silken shirt, and the green flames in the fireplace beside the bed. Yes, Draco Malfoy liked the colour green. Immensely. He established that fact with a twirl of the brush through his hair, thinking himself rather a genius for figuring that out. The colour green reminded him of his Hogwarts days, and the command and control he had over the entire Slytherin. Alas, this control was gone now, along with his money, home and loyalty to the Dark Side. Yes, capitals. He had upgraded the words to capitals during his year-long ranting depression.

Seeing as he hadn't gone back to Hogwarts for his seventh and final year – incidentally, the one he had been looking forward to the most; he'd had the Head Boy-ship in the bag – there wasn't a lot he could do after the Final Battle (Draco liked his capitals, too). Although there were jobs enough, trying to restore order to the wizarding world, what employer would hire an inexperienced, unqualified un-graduate? Nobody, that's who. Draco had been faced with two choices: go grovelling back to his parents and possibly die, both of the shame and from his father after his betrayal, _or_, lucky option number two, wing it.

He liked saying 'wing it'. It made him feel like he was in a cowboy movie.

Now, he had ruled out the first one after about a nanosecond of rational thought. His parents were still alive (unfortunately), although his father had been cursed with a permanent Jelly Legs. The Healers at St Mungo's were still trying to find a cure for it. Draco had wished they'd give up. It was so much more amusing this way. Took away from his father's dignity a bit when his legs were like tentacles every second of the day.

The second option, however, hadn't seemed too appealing either. Living on the streets, with no money to buy shampoo for his perfect hair, which certainly wouldn't stay perfect for long... the thought made him shudder. So, after a bit of _irrational_ thought, he decided to give the first option a try. However, that hadn't worked out. He'd chickened out, and found a cave to live in. He had packed a huge backpack full of essentials (and enough shampoo that his hair would stay perfect for quite a while yet) and, as he said, _winged it. _Winged? Wang? Wung? He wasn't sure of the appropriate past tense for it, and the second one made him giggle. He decided on the last one, so when he appeared, with his backpack and his perfect hair out of place, and his mother asked what he had been doing for so long, he was able to say – with an exceptionally proud look on his exceptionally handsome face – that he had, "Wung it."

He had been welcomed back with open arms, by his mother at least. His father wasn't too pleased, but what could he do? He had tried cursing Draco once or twice, but he had, erm, been mysteriously hit from behind with another powerful, permanent curse. Now he couldn't talk either, which was a pleasant change.

But now, he was twenty years old, and he decided he was getting a little old to be living with his mummy – and his speechless daddy. So his bags were packed, pressed up against the green wall, and he had just thrown in a truckload of Floo powder. There was a neatly folded note lying on his bed, that basically said, 'Leaving now, buh bye. I'll come back when I get brokerer. Love Drakey.'

He was going to go visit Blaise Zabini, who was apparently quite well off now. He sent his luggage through first, and then stepped into the fireplace himself.

"Blaise Zabini's house," he said clearly, coughing as a chunk of congealed Floo powder lodged itself in his throat. For a moment, he was worried that the powder had made him mispronounce, but then went back to fearing for his life due to the whole 'powder wedged down throat' thing. But no, he felt the Floo Powder take its effect, and he was pulled back through the fireplace, and then spat out on the other end.

He surveyed his surroundings with disgust. "So much for well off," he muttered, walking around. The floor boards creaked under his feet, and there was a strange musty smell that he couldn't quite place. Then he realised: this _definitely_ wasn't Blaise's house. He looked around. His bags weren't there. He stuck his head out the window, the cold air making his throat burn. The house was in a deserted alley.

He found the stairs, testing them to see if they would hold his weight. They wouldn't, and they collapsed – with him on them – onto the floor. He climbed out of the wreckage, aching, and out onto the street. He was looking for a wizard, but he didn't want to pull out his wand just yet, because there was a teenaged Muggle boy crossing the road.

"Oi! Muggle!" he called desperately.

The Muggle turned around menacingly. "What'd you call me?"

"A Mug- I mean, nothing, nothing. Excuse me, where... er... where am I, exactly?"

The Muggle crossed the road, striding back towards him. Before his sense of self-preservation had kicked in, he had been punched full in the face. With a stream of blood dripping from the nose – which had previously been long, straight and angular, and was now just hurting like hell – he stumbled in the opposite direction to the Muggle. He needed a hospital.

"_Malfoy_?" came a female voice.

He turned around, his vision a little fuzzy. It was an average heighted girl with long brown hair, falling to her waist in gentle waves. She was in Muggle clothes, and even in his disoriented, _painful_ state, Draco could tell that they were very flattering. This girl was _hot_, and he would have tried to chat her up if he could see a little better...

"Hello, love," he murmured, trying to make out the shape of her a little clearer.

"You _idiot_. You stupid, arrogant little _idiot_," hissed the girl, and suddenly she didn't seem so hot anymore. He tried to sit up, but it didn't exactly work too well. His head started to throb, so he lay it back down on the pavement.

Suddenly, he felt something slimy running down his neck, like he'd had an egg cracked there. An unseen force lifted him off the ground, and he fell asleep.

When Draco woke up, he was lying in a bed. It was warm, and soft. His eyelids fluttered open, and he registered the pretty girl in front of him, poking at his face with a long stick.

"_Granger_?" he asked incredulously.

"Mmm?" she asked absentmindedly, jabbing her wand at his nose and murmuring, "_Episkey_."

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, you see, I kind of work here."

"Where am I?" he asked, trying to look around without causing himself unnecessary pain.

"In a hospital."

"Isn't that a _Muggle_ thing?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"I wouldn't be like that if I were you. It's because of this _Muggle thing_ that you're still alive," she snapped, giving him an extra hard jab that he was sure was superfluous, as she healed a cut on his cheek.

"But," he struggled to say, "that's a _wand_."

"Yes, it is," she said, as if she were speaking to a three year old.

"We're in a _hospital_."

"Yes, we are."

"Are you _insane_?" he exclaimed, sitting up and staring at her.

"No," she said, waving her wand at him and forcing him back down onto the bed. "It's deserted. Do you _really_ think I'd be stupid enough to reveal myself? I'm happy here."

"That makes one of us," he muttered.

"I could leave, if you like," she said sarcastically, gesturing to the door.

Draco felt what he had a feeling was a broken rib, and exclaimed, "No! Stay! I need fixing! Don't leave!"

"Fine," she said, sending a wave of warmth over him, as even the smallest amount of pain disappeared and he felt his eyelids droop. When he awoke, there were people. _Muggles_, as a matter of fact. He searched the room for Hermione, but she was nowhere to be found. He had no choice but to do the usual Malfoy thing. He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead, sulking.

"Oh, stop that," muttered Hermione as she appeared by his bedside.

He clutched onto her collar, uncomfortably near her bosom. "You need to get me out of here," he said frantically.

"Okay. You're fixed. Where did you want to go?"

"Blaise's house," he said immediately.

"Blaise... Blaise _Zabini_?" asked Hermione, looking startled.

"Yes, of course. Take me to him." Draco stood up, pretending to be in a lot of pain as he leant against Hermione, who shoved him away. She walked ahead, her footsteps clicking on the ground.

"Follow me," she said. "I'll take you to a fireplace." She led him into a small office, and gestured to the fireplace. "Go on." She tossed a small amount of Floo powder into the flames, and shoved him in.

"Aren't you coming with me?" he asked desperately, all of a sudden not to keen on the idea of randomly bursting into the fireplace of a man he hadn't seen in three years.

She smiled slightly. "Now that you mention it, I'd like to see this." She stepped in beside him, and reeled off and address. They jerked backwards, and were spat out into a very posh house. "Blaise?" she called. "Blaise, where are you?"

He came out, tall, dark and handsome, with nothing but a towel around his waist. Draco shuddered slightly. He didn't get a kick out of seeing other men half naked. Women, yes, but not men.

"Oh, hello Hermione. How's Muggle life treating you?"

Hermione smiled. "Fantastically, actually. But I'm not here to chat. I'm accompanying this wretch. Apparently, he's visiting you."

Blaise peered at Draco, who rearranged his features. He had been staring around the room. No wonder Blaise hadn't recognised him. But now that his face had assumed its usual scowl, Blaise exclaimed, "Draco! How've you been, old boy?"

"Peachy," muttered Draco. "Erm, I'm broke."

"And?" asked Blaise, glancing at the expensive watch that glinted on his wrist. "If you don't mind, I've got a massage in five minutes."

Hermione took the opportunity to jump in. "I _think_ he needs a place to stay, from what I can tell."

"Can he stay with you?" asked Blaise. "I'm jetting out to the Bahamas to shoot a Muggle movie tomorrow."

"With _me_?" asked Hermione, as Draco exclaimed, "With _her_?"

"Yes," said Blaise. "I'm sure you'll get along nicely. See you, Hermione. We'll catch up when I get back, okay? Coffee, same time, same place?"

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Good to see you, Draco!" called Blaise cheerfully, as he bustled from the room.

Draco stared after him. "I can't believe he... I can't... he..."

Hermione seemed amused. It just made Draco crosser. "He's famous, Malfoy. He doesn't give _anyone_ the time of day."

"'Cept you," Draco pointed out.

"Yes, because we're friends. Or, we _were_, before he saddled me with _you_." She seemed disgusted. Draco was offended.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, but you obviously aren't too keen on the idea yourself," she said.

_The girl's got a point._

"Okay. So. I'm going to be... staying with you," he said, trying not to look too disgusted, and not succeeding.

"I guess you are," she responded, and then added hopefully, "Unless you'd rather check into a hotel?"

The look on Draco's face as he recalled the fact that that would have been a really good idea if his wallet was so empty that it was forming cobwebs obviously alerted Hermione to the fact that his answer was a strong negative.

And with a sudden _bang_, life as he knew it froze up. He and Hermione, enemies since as long as he could remember, would be existing together. Breathing the same air, even. A disgusting thought, it's true, but he had nowhere else to go.


	2. A Slight Complication

_Chapter 2_

_A Slight Complication_

Taking a pinch from Blaise Zabini's stock of extra expensive Floo powder, Hermione turned the flames green again, and stepped into the fire. Draco obsequiously jumped in beside her, having made up his mind to _not_ piss Granger off as much as possible.

"So," he said conversationally, as they were jerked back by their navels. "What've you been up to since-?"

Hermione stepped out of the fireplace into a decrepit little apartment, gesturing around her. "This is pretty much it. You can conjure yourself a bed, I suppose."

"This is your _house_?" he asked, faintly disgusted.

"Of a sort, I suppose," she said with a shrug. "I don't _own_ the place. I don't even pay rent."

"Who does?" he asked curiously. This was _scandalous_. Did _Hermione Granger_ have a _sugar daddy_?

"Ron, of course."

Draco felt his eyes bulge. "You're living with _Weasley_? And therefore, _I'm_ living with Weasley?"

Hermione burst out laughing. "Of course not. 'Weasley' is holidaying with Pansy Parkinson. I'm house-sitting while my place gets remodelled."

"Phew," said Draco, wiping his forehead. "_That's_ a relief."

"Why? We're all as bad as each other in your book, aren't we?"

He closed his mouth and chose not to comment, until he remembered his whole 'being nice to Granger' thing.

"So what've you been up to since the battle?" he asked, flopping down on a spongey sort of something that could be a couch, and could be a rotting table or something.

"Working," she said simply. "But _you're_ obviously very behind the times. Where on earth have you _been_?"

He couldn't resist but to declare proudly, "I wung it."

"Congratulations," she said dryly. "I'm going out. You can, er, help yourself to the food and such." She gathered up the coat that had been draped over an armchair, and began to walk out of the room.

Draco protested feebly, "But... _food_!"

Hermione turned around to glare at him. "Are you a wizard or not, Malfoy?" With that, she disappeared from the room. Draco heard a click as the front door opened. He unsteadily walked over to the window and watched as she appeared on the street below, with the coat now firmly wrapped around her person. She was rather good at being a Muggle, although Draco could not for the life of him imagine why anyone would inflict that on themselves voluntarily. Life was so much more fun with a magical stick in your hand.

With that thought in his mind, Draco put his hand in his back pocket in order to retrieve _his_ magical stick. It wasn't there. He searched his pockets and everything, a little awkwardly since he'd never bothered to look for anything before. He usually had his _wand_ to summon it to him. Well, fat help that would be now. But he tried it anyway, thinking, '_Accio wand, accio wand, come on you stupid bloody twig, accio!_' He wasn't _really_ that surprised when it didn't work.

A niggling voice in the back of his head said, _Perhaps it fell out when you got beaten up by that horrid Muggle, you weak little-_

Draco cut off the voice in the middle of whatever insult it had been about to throw at him, and began to pace around in the room. Perhaps, if he paced _really_ hard, the friction of his feet would spark a flame which would set this repulsive apartment alight, and explode some strange magical powder that the ancient wizard hidden in the attic had been producing, and the explosion would engulf him but he would pop out good as new and suddenly have magic powers that he didn't need a wand to work.

When Hermione got back, he was still pacing.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked. "You're tracking mud all over the carpet!"

He looked down. She was right. He'd been entertaining hopeful thoughts that the dark marks on the ground were actually scorches from his pacing. Now that he thought about it, he'd never actually seen mud. At home, the house elves always cleaned up after him, and he had never bothered to look back. At Hogwarts, he had been too caught up in his own problems and magnificence to bother.

"Clean it up," growled Hermione.

"Would, but I seem to have misplaced my wand. You didn't steal it in the horse-spit thing, did you?" he asked hopefully.

Hermione turned an interesting shade of purple, and screamed, "_You lost your wand_?"

Draco winced, covering his ears. There was a thumping on the floor, and a creaky old man voice saying, "Hermione?"

Hermione swore. Draco was shocked. He'd _never_ heard her swear before, and never expected her to, not in a million years.

Somebody knocked on the door. Hermione hurried over and opened it, smiling sweetly. "Hello, Mr Pattinson. So sorry about the racket-"

The old man leant past Hermione to glare at Draco. "A new boyfriend, Hermione?"

Draco noticed, with a strange satisfaction, that Hermione turned another funny colour and said emphatically, "Certainly _not_. An old schoolmate who's gotten himself in a bit of a jam."

The old man nodded knowingly, and grinned at Hermione. He was so obviously sweet on her. It grossed Draco out a bit, and made him feel a little funny too.

"Goodbye, Mr Pattinson. I'm incredibly sorry about the noise," said Hermione, clasping her hands together.

The old guy winked at her, and left. Thank God for that, thought Draco. He turned to face Hermione, a witty joke about the man's obvious attraction for her on the tip of his tongue, only to cringe away when he realised that she was still that odd purple colour.

"Er... Grang- uh, Hermione?" He had to correct himself from using her surname. If they were... living together... surely that promoted her to first name basis? Besides, she _had_ taken him to that ridiculous horsepital place, which, admittedly, had ended with him being cured. And now she was opening her – well, Weasley's – home to _him_, Draco Malfoy, the one that she _hated_. Now that he thought about it, it seemed increasingly likely that she was going mad.

"Malfoy," said Hermione, obviously trying to keep calm. Draco commended her effort, and watched, intrigued, as the colour drained from her face and she returned to the pinky brown-ness that he was accustomed to seeing grace her face. "You lost your wand."

"Yes," he confirmed, nodding slowly as he wondered if she was an imbecile as well as being insane.

To his immense surprise, she burst out laughing. It was actually rather disturbing, so he decided that the most effective strategy would be to wait cautiously until she had, er, recovered. When she was breathing normally again, he ventured, "Erm... are you quite alright, Hermione?"

"Call me Granger," she said. "I know you prefer it."

"Granger," he allowed, inclining his head. "Now, er, why are you laughing? I don't think it's really advisable, what with all the blood rushing around your head from that purple-ness."

"I was laughing because it's _funny_," she said, pressing her lips together as if to stop another giggle in its attempt to wriggle past her full, red lips. They were quite nice lips, noticed Draco. However, he wasn't going to waste his time analysing her lips, because he was more concerned about her mental health.

"How is it funny, Granger?"

"_You_ don't have a wand, and you're stranded in the middle of a Muggle city, with no way of getting back to the wizarding world."

"I'm not stranded," he protested. "I have you... oh."

"Exactly," she said, smirking somewhat as she folded her arms over her chest. "See? It _is_ a little funny, isn't it? You are entirely at the mercy of the girl you mocked for six years, and tried to kill in the seventh."

"I didn't try to kill you," he objected, hurt slightly. He wouldn't have killed her. Potter, perhaps, but not her. He didn't kill girls, with the exception of Potty. He sighed slightly, acknowledging that he hadn't killed _anyone_, as far as he had known. He'd been too chicken, although it wasn't like it was a bad thing that his hands weren't stained with the blood of some poor person that he'd slain. Then he _really_ would have been depressed.

"Not directly, no, but- I'm not going to have this argument with you, Malfoy. I was busy taunting you about your lack of wand, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," he said dryly, reclining on the hideous sofa thing as he prepared for what he was quite certain would be an incredibly long rant about his treatment over her and her little friends over the years. It would have been more bearable with a Firewhiskey, but he didn't think it wise to ask her.

She was silent, with a blank face except for the slight smile playing across her lips. She watched him, sitting there on Ron's horrible sofa, and it intimidated him a little.

"Should you be punished, do you think, Malfoy?" she asked suddenly. "Should you have a little taste of what the Muggles you always taunted have to go through every day? I think it would be quite a learning experience for you."

"Hermione, you _can't_," he began to protest, forgetting to use her surname in his anxiety. "That would be _cruel_, and you aren't a cruel person."

"Aren't I?" she asked. "Having an enemy show up practically on your doorstep can do that to a person."

"Please!" he begged. "I'll... I'll be nice to you!"

She sighed dramatically, clasped her hands to her heart, and swooned, "Oh, my heart's greatest desire!"

He narrowed his eyes. Who knew this new Hermione could be such a bitch?

"You see, Malfoy," said Hermione, obviously deciding that she didn't need to leave again so badly after all, now that a more interesting pastime had emerged, "You made my life, and the lives of my friends, something scarcely short of living hell. To you, then, I suppose I have to thank that I've got such a tough skin."

Draco exhaled, and sagged against the back of the sofa-ish-blob. "You're welcome," he said graciously. Well, she was. He hadn't minded at all, and if it led to him being awarded Hermione's eternal undying gratitude, then, she was more than welcome for the years of torment. Torture, really. She had no idea how close he'd come to persuading Filch to lend him the torture chains.

She smiled, and it seemed to Draco that the smile held a tad more than gratitude. In fact, it didn't look very grateful at all. Instead, rather, it looked _devious_.

He instinctively slid to the end of the couch that was furthest away from him, surveying the expression on her face. She took a few steps towards him, her high heeled – and, if he did say so himself, rather sexy; her fashion sense had improved – boots making an ominous clacking sound on the floor as she strode over to him.

Well, frankly, _everything_ sounds ominous to you when you've got a genius witch smirking in your face, and whispering, "And as a token of my gratitude, I'd like to have a little fun with you."

His first reaction was to think 'ooh, _kinky_'. His second was to gulp, loudly, and start pleading for his life again.

He should have known, though. Hermione Granger was smarter than he occasionally gave her credit for. She had a plan, and it would take nothing short of the world imploding to stop her from putting it into action.


	3. Definitely Not A Native

_Here we go. Next chapter. Can't really think of anything to say about it, so I'll cut the chatter and let you get on with it. Enjoy._

_Chapter 3_

_Definitely _Not_ A Native_

Draco was generally a courageous person. At least, that's what he would tell you if you asked, but people rarely did. Everyone knew the story of Draco Malfoy's infamous run with the Dark Side, and how it hadn't exactly ended well for him. Some said he had gone insane, moved to a cave to live out the rest of his lowly existence. Others ascertained that he'd been fatally cursed by his own father, and was now rotting in the cellar of Malfoy Manor. All unanimously agreed that he was a poncy jerk who didn't deserve to live.

Hermione Granger was one of those people.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy," she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "Haven't you ever heard? What goes around comes around?"

He did know this one, actually. He started singing, a little too loudly to get out of humiliating himself, but too quietly to incur Mr Pattinson, the elderly 'father figure' to come knocking. Even the old man's unrequited crush on Hermione would be a welcome interruption, now.

"Freak," muttered Hermione.

"I thought he was a heartthrob?" inquired Draco, fully intending on taking her mind of murdering him and getting it – permanently – on gushing about Justin Timberlake.

Hermione scowled. "That's disgusting." Then, a radiant smile came across her face. It made Draco want to puke. "If you're going to be stranded in the Muggle realm for a while, you've at least got to have better taste than _that_."

"Say what?" Draco backpedalled. "How long's a while?"

Hermione shrugged sweetly. "Who knows? Depends how resourceful you are, of course. But really, _Justin Timberlake_? Do you _want_ to have things thrown at you on the subway?"

His eyes bulged, his jaw dropped. Draco Malfoy was officially horrified. "The _what_?" He had heard rumours about this... this _subway_. A giant monster, squirming through the underground of the city, guzzling its passengers before regurgitating them with a resounding belch at the nearest station. _Horrific_, the stories he'd heard.

On second thought, perhaps he shouldn't listen to everything he heard.

"The subway," repeated Hermione, the smile of her face exercising its mutable potential and transforming into one of polite disinterest. "You know, the one you'll be using to transport yourself around the city? You didn't think I was just going to let you live on my _sofa_, did you?"

"_Weasley's_ sofa," he correctly spitefully, glaring at her as he jumped to his feet. "Well, fine! I don't need you! I can get around just fine!"

He was halfway out the door when he had a horrible thought, and poked his head back around it. "Erm... Hermione, oh gracious benefactress?"

Hermione gave a sigh that might have been humour or might have been exasperation, and slapped a green bill in his hand.

"Ooh! Green!" he announced, taking a moment to gaze at it, entranced.

"Would you like me to leave you two alone?" asked Hermione pointedly, her wickedly pointy-toed shoes tapping impatiently on the floor, an unceasing beat that sounded suspiciously like a clock. Tick tock, it's almost time for Draco to insult, and get punched by, another stupid Muggle.

Draco, deciding that he preferred his face to his fondness for the colour green, made a hasty exit from the apartment with the scary lady and the scarier couch. He gazed around at the unfamiliar city, busily hurrying around him as he tried to determine which pierced, tattooed freak would be least likely to eat him.

He was narrowing down between the business man whose eye makeup looked positively hooker-like, and an old lady wearing a g-string on the outside of her spandex running costume, when he noticed a girl with green eyes and a ripped green t-shirt that said '_Bite me. I'll bite harder_' on it. She was watching him, quite intently.

He supposed that he didn't exactly blame her. An incredibly handsome, sexy looking man, wandering down the street waving a twenty dollar – _strange_ currency they had here – note between his finger and thumb... Flashing her his most winsome smile, he made his way over the bustling traffic of the street to her side, and came quite close to getting run over in the process.

A yellow taxi screeched to a halt in front of him, and a rather rude man began to bellow some rather egregious words at him. That is, until a long white limousine smashed into his car, upon which event he upped his insults an octave and began to direct them at the driver of the limousine. Draco was busy admiring the havoc he had created to bother listening, although some of those phrases might come in handy the next time he was sucker punched.

Cars had come to a standstill, and his head was now buzzing with a cacophony of expletives and blaring car horns. He backed slowly off the road, not sure what he'd just done, and not even able to recall why he'd done it. Then, taking one final glance backwards, he ran for his life back to the apartment.

"Hermione!" he bellowed. "I give up!"

She didn't come. He glared accusingly at the lonely couch, which seemed to glare right back at him as if to say '_what the bloody hell do you want _me_ to do about it?_'

Draco was lost. He didn't know what to do.

So he did what any other Draco Malfoy would do. In a time of crisis, he went for the refrigerator. And was handsomely rewarded, too. He unearthed a bowl of cold fries, soggy and drowning in a puddle of their own sweat, half of a strange pudding-y looking thing, and a bendy carrot. That's right. It _bent_.

When he closed the fridge door, intent upon suspiciously determining whether or not eating the pudding was likely to kill him, he _really_ hit the jackpot. A note, scrawled in typical Hermione perfect handwriting upon a post-it note that was stuck lopsidedly to the door.

It read: '_I knew you'd be back. Disappointing, really. I'm talking to Blaise. Don't expect me back for a couple of hours. We'll see how you fend for yourself while I try to get you out of my life._'

"Charming," he muttered, snatching the note and throwing it with a little more force than was necessary at the window. Unfortunately, aforementioned window was open, unbeknownst to Draco.

"Oi!" came a loud shout. "Who the frak just threw something at my head?"

Draco then learnt the first rule of apartment living. If you're gonna drop something out a window, whether or not it was accidental, whether or not it was merely a scrunched up ball of paper... you do _not_, on any circumstances, look out that window.

"Oops," he breathed, as a dark youth with a rather violent look about him yelled up at him, "Hey! Get your ass down here, mother-"

"Young man!" hissed g-string lady, whose latex had seemed to have shrunk since the last time he had seen her.

"-Or I'll come up _there_!" finished the guy, glaring at the lady.

Draco ducked, terrified. Not that he couldn't take the dude, of course. He just didn't... er, want to get his hands dirty.

"That's it!" yelled the boy on the pavement, and Draco was quite sure he would have added a vituperative name if the lady hadn't glared at him again. There were thumps on the stairs.

_Um,_ thought Draco frantically, _Now would be a good time to bawl Hermione out about not leaving me with a wand! Or, possibly, you know, running or something.'_

"Hi!" said a bright voice. "Can I help you?"

"Uh... no. This prick threw something at me from out your window. I'm pretty sure it was this floor," came the voice of the tattooed punk. He sounded less... aggressive. Slightly more... infatuated. Draco gagged. Gross.

"Actually, I saw that on my way across the road. I'm pretty sure it was the next level up," said Hermione sweetly from outside the door.

"Oh... oh, sorry to disturb you, then," said the boy timidly, and thumped his way up the stairs.

Hermione let herself into the apartment with a satisfied look on her face. When she saw him, crouching by the window and looking utterly horrified, the satisfaction turned to frustration.

"You're still here," she said flatly.

"Yup." He tried not to sound too ashamed of himself.

Her face turned accusatory and her hands snapped to her hips. "And _what_ do you think you were you doing, throwing things out my window?" she demanded.

"It was a _post-it_ note. It wasn't like it was an _anvil_ or anything."

Draco realised, after the words left his mouth, that it would probably be in his best interests to actually be _nice_ to Hermione Granger, no matter how much of a psycho bitch she had turned into.

He needn't have feared his sarcastic comment offending her. In fact, it seemed to rather amuse her. She gave a little snicker, and muttered, "A girl can dream, right?"

"_Sorry?_" Draco wasn't actually sure how this conversation had turned to her dreams, which he was fairly certain entertained images of him absolutely stark naked. Well, a guy can dream, right?

Hermione didn't seem to realise that he had heard her. She jumped slightly, and then said, "I _wish_ it had been an anvil. That creep's been hanging around on the pavement, perving on me every time I try to go inside."

Draco shook his head, slightly amused and slightly indignant on her behalf. For a smart girl, she was _really_ stupid. "Are you sure it's not a crush?"

Draco Malfoy had learnt very quickly that, apart from being insane, Hermione Granger also had very low self esteem. He also learnt that Hermione Granger didn't take kindly to what she assumed was a gorgeous sexy blond creature mocking her.

"Oh," she said, her eyes smouldering furiously as she took a step towards him. Draco tried to ignore the influx of instincts yelling '_Run!_' that were pouring into his head. "You are going to _pay_ for that, Draco Malfoy."

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is, as always, appreciated._


	4. Let's Make a Deal

_Hello lovelies. Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, with a special mention to those who reviewed anonymously and I didn't have the chance to reply to: umbridgeskitty (the anonymous review) and Suz. Thanks so much!_

_Chapter 4_

_Let's Make a Deal..._

"I'm sorry!" he yelled, falling down on his suede-clad knees and clutching at her hands. "I didn't mean to- erm, what did I do, exactly?"

Hermione glared at him with rage that made the skies crack, made thunder boom and roll over the hills. He cowered back, wondering which idiot taught her to glare like that. She certainly hadn't hit him with anything that potent back at Hogwarts.

On second thought, perhaps he'd just never pissed her off as much as he was doing now.

She strode over to the window, and leant against the sill. She looked strangely... well, _sexy_ was the only word for it, standing there with the setting sun framing her thin form, clad in high heeled knee high skin tight boots with a long string of adjectives to boot, and wearing-

He took a moment to gawk. _Hermione Granger_ was wearing a _leather jacket_. What's more, it looked like a _man's_ leather jacket. As in, she'd woken up after a torrid night of love with a successful rock star, slipped into his leather jacket on the way out, wearing nothing underneath, and never given it back.

A hand slapped him hard on the head.

"_Ouch!_" he screeched. "What the mother fu-"

The nasty hand hit him again.

"-was that for?" he finished, glaring angrily at her.

Hermione, looking all high and mighty and sexy in the leather jacket, unfortunately with clothes underneath, scowled at him, and said, "You were imagining me naked."

"Wrong. I was imagining you _mostly_ naked," he corrected.

Well, that was just the frosting on the cake. She withdrew a thin length of wood from her sleeve, and aimed it at him.

"Look, Malfoy," she sneered, "I've changed since Hogwarts, and now, I won't hesitate to set you on fire. You're pissing me off, and I don't want you here. I'm doing my best to ship you off to someone else, unless you'd like to be obliging and leave, but until then, unless the fire thing's looking good to you, you'd better be normal, and civil, and, well... not you."

Draco's brows furrowed. She didn't make a lot of sense when she was angry at him. "Am I to surmise, from that lengthy and, by the way, _charming_ little speech that you'd rather I picture you fully dressed?"

Her teeth were obviously gritted as she responded, "If you must picture me at all, yes, I'd rather be clothed."

"Ah," he said triumphantly, "but I can picture you doing whatever I like to me?"

It took a moment for her to understand what he meant, but when she did, boy, did he regret it. She sent a hex at him, a Jelly Legs by the look of it. When it hit him, and he collapsed to the floor, his legs all of a sudden feeling like cooked pasta, he confirmed his mid-air diagnosis.

"Look, Malfoy," she said, sounding calmer and slightly less psycho-bitch. "I hate you, and you hate me."

"That's the general consensus," he muttered, clutching at his leg to try and make it stop moving. It didn't work.

"So, the easiest way to get out of this predicament would be for you to leave, right?" If he wasn't mistaken, he had heard a copious amount of hope in her voice as she made her suggestion.

"I'm not going anywhere like this," he remarked darkly, pointing at his legs.

"What if I fix you?" she asked, smiling sweetly and dangling her wand at him.

He sighed, and leant his head against the couch. "Hermione, darling, I suppose I haven't been completely honest with you."

Hermione didn't sound surprised. "Oh? What is it? Drug dealers come to get you? A pimp you didn't pay?"

"Actually, it's my father," he said simply.

That wasn't the answer she had been expecting. She hated Lucius; not exactly an unknown fact. Shouldn't it follow that she ought to side with others who hate him too?

Well, to the logical mind, yes. To the slightly twisted mind of Hermione Granger, which seemed to assert that the idiot who tortured her for seven years and had now come back for more, was _not_ one to be trusted or liked.

Draco was going to do his utmost to alter that perception.

He felt around the deepest darkest corners of his pockets, and withdrew a crumpled note that was lucky it wasn't in the fire right now. The paper was deposited into Hermione's hand with an air of 'good riddance', and she glanced at it before looking up at him.

After he gestured for her to read it, she looked back down at the parchment and read aloud, "'Draco Malfoy. I curse you to the fiery pits of hell. You are a traitor and a disgrace to the Malfoy name. Your mother and I wish for you to have no further contact with us. Lucius Malfoy.'"

She passed the note back to him as if it was contaminating her to hold it. He stuffed it back in his pocket, and awaited her reaction.

"What'd you do?" asked Hermione, looking slightly enthralled. "That's one nice note, even to you."

"I agree," said Draco darkly. "All I did was stop him from talking and... stuff."

Hermione looked exasperated. "No wonder he hates you. So, explain why _I've_ got to have anything to do with this?"

He glanced down. He wasn't looking forward to this bit. It was, quite frankly, rather embarrassing. He would prefer not to have to beg Hermione Granger for her help.

"Look, Hermione... I need your help." He looked up at her, and thought she looked softened. So he took the plunge. "I meant to find Blaise, but I'm glad I found you instead. Bad things have happened, and I can't count how many people I've pissed off. I'm just going to be frank here... I need a place to stay."

"Why should I help you?" demanded Hermione. "You hate me, remember?"

"You're smart, Hermione Granger, and you're a good person. I don't think you could let this pass by and go for the rest of your life wondering if I might still be alive if you'd taken me in." He was pulling out all of the guilty stops here. He needed it.

Hermione sighed, and unzipped the leather jacket. "Fine. You can stay. But that doesn't mean I don't want you gone. In fact, as soon as Blaise gets back, I'm having a word to him about you."

Draco nodded. It was all he could hope for, really. He had a place to stay, and a witch to protect him. Life was good.

"On one condition," added Hermione.

He groaned under his breath. He should have known that she wasn't going to let such an opportunity go to waste.

"Speak..." he said cautiously, twirliing a lock of over-long hair around one finger. "If you must," he added hopefully, just in case she decided that she didn't really have to speak after all.

She looked like a cat that had just... eaten something. She was smiling, without a hint of cruelty in her face. When she spoke, though, he realised where all the excess had gone.

"I want..." she began, her voice dropping with all the maliciousness and hatred that she hadn't had the guts to display all through Hogwarts. All of those emotions combined into one _evil_ voice. Draco shuddered.

"Yes?" he prompted, as she apparently got distracted by her own evilness and gave a twisted smile.

"I want an apology," she demanded. "For everything you did to me."

He rolled his eyes. Of course. He'd always known that one person couldn't change_ that _much... she was still crap at making deals.

"I'm sorry for everything I did to you during our tenure at Hogwarts," he began, trying not to let the monotone seep through his voice. Even so, he sounded like a text book. Funny, how positions can be reversed. "It was wrong and insensitive of me, and I'll never do it aga-"

Hermione was shaking her head. "You're right," she decided. "That was a bad idea."

"A compromise, then?" he suggested. "Let's make a deal... I'll... take you out to dinner. As soon as I earn some money."

She gave a snort, and this time it was _her_ rolling her eyes. Draco was mortally offended. She should be honoured to have a date with him, Draco Malfoy, the Fantastic One.

"I don't think so. Housework for a month."

He smiled. A month? She was going to let him stay for at least a month. That, he could work with.

"Deal," he confirmed, as he reached out to shake her hand.

Again stealing his thunder, taking his usual trick, she shuddered away from it, but finally, with a heavy sigh that made it sound like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, she delicately placed her hand in his and shook it.

Draco was satisfied. Now, he had a confirmed place of residence. _Marvellous._

"I do have one little problem though," he said cautiously. "You know... no wand..."

Her gentle smile grew just a little bit diabolical. "Oh, I know."

--

After forty minutes of '_oh, please! I need a wand! I'll give it back, I promise!_' and '_Ouch! Take that curse off this _instant_! I mean, please, Hermione dear?_' Draco was curled up on the couch thing with a pink and blue knitted quilt over him, trying not to think about what he had just rolled over. In fact, he hadn't the faintest clue what it could be, but he wasn't staying awake to figure it out. He was staying awake to try and puzzle out why the hell Hermione had just agreed to let him stay in her – well, Weaselbee's – apartment, for an indeterminate length of time. He supposed it was for the torture factor... poor defenceless Draco, wandless and impoverished, countered against a grown up, sexied up, toughened up Hermione. Scary thoughts.

What Draco didn't realise, as he lay on his back with the blanket doing a shoddy job of covering all of his long frame, was that Hermione had crept out of her bedroom and was peering around the doorframe at him, wondering why the hell she'd just agreed to let _Draco Malfoy_ of all people stay in her – well, Ron's – apartment for an indeterminate length of time.

He was in trouble, she knew, but why was she helping him? Or, if she was going to take the Good Samaritan point of view, why was she being such a bitch?

Well, _that_ answer, she was fairly aware of. He was still the same as ever... still handsome, still arrogant, still... Draco Malfoy. He hadn't changed, just gotten a little humbler and a tad more mature. Ever so slightly.

She sighed, used her wand to enlarge the blanket, summoned her handbag and her boots, and let herself out the front door. She had something she needed to do.

--

When Draco awoke, the apartment was deserted. His first thought was, '_oh shit! She's done a runner!_' Perhaps he'd been coming on a little strong with the endearments and all.

"Hermione?" he called carefully, just making sure that she was _really_ gone before he started cursing her to hell and back.

Then he had an idea. He raced into her bedroom. The bed hadn't been slept in, but her clothes were all still there. Well, clothes were there. He hadn't the faintest idea whether that was all of them. He wasn't exactly intimately acquainted with Hermione's wardrobe. In fact, if he had to be intimately acquainted with any part of Hermione's life, he'd rather there be no clothes involved at all in that interaction.

He decided to try and pit his incredible intelligence and wit against the horrors of Hermione's refrigerator. Perhaps the food fairy had made it nice and pretty and yummy while he slept.

He yanked open the door, ready to kung-fu kick anything that jumped out at him to China. Nothing did, but he recoiled anyway. It was worse than he remembered. The mould on the apple pie appeared to be a strange lavender colour, and the odd stain of fungus on the hunk of cheese seemed to have multiplied.

The next twenty minutes were spent trying to hack off enough of the mould and fungus and all things disgusting to provide a decent meal. Unfortunately, in the process, he managed to slice the skin off his knuckle, after which he deserted the bloodstained knife and turned to moaning in pain.

When Hermione walked through the door, hastily exclaiming, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I got called in to work!" she stumbled across Draco, sitting – shirtless – on the kitchen counter with an unhappy look on his – shirtless – face. He was clutching – shirtlessly – at his hand, which appeared to be-

"Oh _God!_" she shrieked, turning away and covering her eyes.

Draco dropped his hand, fascinated. "Why," he asked curiously, and just a little pointedly, "are you a Healer if you don't like blood?"

"I'm not a Healer, I'm a doctor," she said impatiently, keeping her eyes averted from both his bleeding hand and his toned torso.

Draco jumped off the counter and made his way towards her. "Would you mind having a look at-"

"_Keep it away from me!_" Hermione bellowed, escaping to the safety of the doorway. Draco wasn't sure if she was talking about the blood or his incredible sexy abs. "_Or I _swear_, Draco Malfoy, I'll curse you to Mars!_"

"Should I pack my spacesuit?" he asked amusedly as he took a few steps closer.

Hermione took a deep, gulping breath. "Okay," she said, her voice high pitched. "Give it here. Let me see it."

"You sure?" asked Draco, surprised. Extending a glance to the cut on his hand, he realised that the blood was stopping. "You know, it's fine. It's almost better."

"Give it to me," Hermione insisted, grabbing his hand and pulling it to her. He ignored how awkward it felt to be more or less holding hands with Hermione, but her touch was warm and soothing, and a jab from her wand had it healed in no time.

"Thanks," he said, his voice a tone lower than usual.

"Anytime," responded Hermione, a touch higher than her usual dulcet tones.

They stared at each other for a moment, until, simultaneously, they both started to talk, trying to erase the awkward mood.

"So, er, where'd you say you went?"

"Uh, how'd you cut yourself anyway?"

They looked at each other simultaneous, and then answered simultaneously.

"I had to go to work."

"I was trying to get breakfast."

Hermione ventured to speak, after another bout of awkward staring. "So, uh... want to eat out?"

"Do I ever," said Draco enthusiastically, leaping towards the door.

"Uh... clothes?" suggested Hermione.

"Right!" Draco tried not to look too embarrassed as he scurried to the bathroom with an armful of what looked like the grey trousers and green shirt of yesterday.

He emerged looking quite presentable, considering the clothes he was wearing were the same ones he'd been clad in for the past few weeks.

They walked to Hermione's favourite café, where they sat awkwardly and exchanged awkward snippets of conversation and Hermione awkwardly paid for Draco's breakfast, seeing as he had no money at all.

"So, where are you off to now?" he asked, incredibly cheery now that he was fed.

"Work."

Draco was appalled. "But you just came from there!"

"And now I'm going back," she remarked. "Think you can find your way back?"

"I can Apparate," he said indignantly.

"Because travelling magically always turns out _so_ well for you," she snapped under her breath.

To tell the truth, she was right. Draco said tentatively, "Erm... you don't think I could come with you?"

Hermione looked at him briefly before nodding. "Come on."

_Come on with the come ons_, thought Draco, winking in his head, before following Hermione towards the hospital.

"Do you always let annoying, sexy men come to work with you, or is it just your way of telling me how incredibly muchly you'd like to throw me against a wall and-"

"Go to hell."

* * *


	5. Rock This Party

_Chapter 5_

_Rock This Party_

By the end of the day, Draco had decided that he liked hospitals, very much. First, he had wandered to the cafeteria after accidentally walking in on Hermione changing into her hospital clothes. Well, the first time had been an accident, at least.

After he'd gotten bored of flicking little bits of his food at the large lady serving it, he'd wandered back up to Hermione. She was bustling around, administering injections – horrible practice, jabbing a thin bit of steel into someone's veins – and checking reports. She hadn't seemed to be in the mood to come down and start a food fight with him, so he, rather unwillingly, stomped off to the bathroom, where he amused himself for about an hour, making soap bubbles out of the pink liquid soap by the sink. Once that got boring, and people began to give him odder looks than usually, he found a new fun thing to do.

He stuck to Hermione. She was frantic, trying to get him away. "Go play in the children's ward. I'm about to go into surgery."

"Isn't surgery that weird thing where you cut people open?"

Hermione pulled on a face mask, and, snapping rubber gloves around her wrist, snapped, "Yes," before storming through the doors to the operating theatre.

Draco looked up, and saw stairs. So, of course, his curious nature got the better of him. He climbed up.

"Excuse me? What are you doing here?" asked an attractive young nurse, once he entered the viewing station.

"I'm... I'm related to the patient," he said, disguising his stammering as grief. "Dr Granger told me I could watch the slicin' and dicin'."

It only occurred to Draco afterwards that perhaps 'slicing and dicing' wasn't a phrase commonly used by family members of patients, but nonetheless the girl let him stay, albeit with a few shifty glances.

Hermione looked very professional, storming around in that strange gown thing. Draco _really_ got interested when someone placed a little knife thingy into her hand, and she sliced a thin line along the person's stomach. He cringed as she pulled it apart, and dashed from the viewing room when she started cutting away little chunks of black flesh.

Three hours later, after discovering him already at home, she collapsed opposite him at the rotting dining table. "Hey. I saw you run out. Feeling okay?"

"You don't like blood..." he choked out, "but you can... cut people open and pull out their _insides_?"

She was looking a little embarrassed. "Blood?" It occurred to him then that perhaps it _had_ been his marvellously bare upper body that had gotten her all hot and bothered. He opened his mouth to comment, but Hermione interrupted with, "Oh hey, Shirley wanted me to give you her number."

She slid a little piece of paper across the table at him. He picked it up and studied it before asking, "Who the bloody hell is _Shirley_?"

"Nurse. 'Parently she gave you a bit of a hard time about getting into the viewing room. But she does that to the people she... erm, likes."

"Hmm," said Draco, before flicking the paper to the ground. "Not my type."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and something started beeping. She rushed off a moment later, apologising profusely. After hours and _hours_ of boredom, she re-emerged, and they could go home.

"So," Draco said. "I don't suppose you'll share your bed with me tonight?"

The look in Hermione's eyes was priceless, but Draco didn't have time to admire because he had a feeling he'd rather his last few moments be spent entertaining happy thoughts.

He closed his eyes for the death blow.

_Naked Hermione... naked Hermione... naked Hermi- _

It was a happy day for Draco Malfoy when Hermione started buzzing. Literally. She began to emit loud, blaring _zzz_s, repetitive and unyielding. Precisely _where _she was buzzing from, or _why_, for that matter, Draco could only form vague surmises, most of which were utterly impossible.

All of his wonderful fantasies about a transporting machine to take him back home, or a mechanical bee or something, went down the drain as she fumbled in the left pocket of her leather handbag, withdrew a sleek shiny rectangular thing, flipped it open and pressed it to her ear with a snarky, "_What?_"

Draco took a step towards her, peering curiously at whatever strange device she was speaking into.

Hermione took a step back, obviously seeing Draco's approach and obviously not liking it too much. She held up a finger at him, warning him to stay back, and listened to whatever booming was going from the silver thing into her ear. It was boring, Draco averred after a few seconds, watching somebody talk into an inanimate object.

"No! No, Ronald, you _cannot_ do this to me! The longer I stay in this _hellhole_ of a place, the longer I'm saddled with _him_!" Hermione sounded positively incensed. Draco had to admit, it was a good look on her.

Draco's ear pricked up. The mention of '_him_' said in an accusatory, vaguely disgusted tone coming from Hermione Granger's mouth could only mean one thing.

"Talking about me, darling?" he inquired. "Gosh, I _am_ in the room, after all."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she sent a kick at him. Her high heels looked like they could poke his eye out, or disembowel him or something, and probably would have – both at the same time, too – if he hadn't taken a step backwards. Like the darts he'd accidently enchanted as a child, they sailed past his right ear with a resounding _whoosh_.

He would have been indignant, and informed Hermione so immediately, if he hadn't been too busy concentrating on her conversation with the Weasel-head.

"No! I am _not_ sleeping with _him_! That's _disgusting_, you little _bastard_! If it isn't bad enough that you walked out on me to holiday with _Pansy Parkinson-_" Draco was pleased to see Hermione's lip curl with disgust as she spat the name, but then began to process what he'd just heard, "-you have to _insult_ me about what a _whore_ I am as _well_?" Her voice rose a decibel or two, and Draco began to think that she had passed the boundary of hysteria.

Ronald Weasley, impoverished spawn, was obviously fighting back, in no uncertain terms. However, after nine years, he still hadn't grasped that Hermione didn't like to end an argument without having the last word. In fact, she _detested_ it.

"No, Ron," she said, quietly this time. Draco was slightly stunned, but only a little. He'd been expected a screaming, '_F you!_', but instead, she was turning all pensive and guilt-extracting. Wait a moment... on second thought, the girl was a genius.

"I'm done with this. I'm done with _you_, as a matter of fact. Now, enjoy your holiday, tell Harry to call me, and never speak to me again. After I've thrown a raucous party for all of the new friends I'm sure I'll enjoy picking out of the gutter, I'll pack up and leave. All right? Don't worry. I won't forget to lock the door."

She snapped the thing closed, and hurled it at the wall. It paused for a second in the air, before blasting into various little pieces on impact with the stone. They showered over the carpet, a few half-heartedly sizzling, a couple just lying defeatedly. Draco noticed two wires rubbing against each other, looking suspicious, and was about to comment when there was a loud _pop!_ and a smell of gunpowder swirled throughout the room.

He couldn't remember how he knew what gunpowder smelt like, but he was fairly sure it wasn't good.

"_What,_" he asked, shifting his gaze slowly from the mangled device on the floor to Hermione's face, "_was that?_"

"That was a mobile phone being sent to meet its maker," she said calmly.

He nodded. He understood now. "And the other thing?"

"Was Ronald Weasley getting verbally castrated."

He nodded again. He understood that one as well. What he _didn't_ understand was how he had managed to miss so much in his absence. _Hermione Granger_ and _Ginger_, _together_? It was so deliciously predictable that he couldn't bring himself to care any less than he already did.

That is, until he realised that Hermione was leaving. Then, his head was so occupied with pestering her that he completely forgot about the Weasel and his mating habits.

"Where are you going?" he whined. "You can't leave without me!"

"Oh yes I can," she said, staring down at his chosen method of stopping her with the air of someone who'd just trodden on a snail. "If you'll excuse me, I'm off to find some of those sewer rats I was telling Weasley about."

With a not-so-gentle slap to the wrist that was clutching her arm, she freed herself from Draco's grasp and exited, stage left.

He pouted for a minute, glared at the door for another two, and finally, when it was fairly certain that Hermione wasn't returning, settled for slumping on the horrible couch thing and falling asleep.

-o-o-O-o-o-

When he awoke, there was noise. A lot of noise. And not good noise, like the noise of Hermione's voice informing him her exact plans in the way of what she'd like to do with him, or like the noise which those funny spinning plates make in that shiny box, signalling that Draco's food – or, slightly more accurately, Hermione's food which Draco was heating up – was ready. Oh, no. It was loud, insufferable party music, and it was bursting from a speaker right by his head.

He sat up slowly, clutching a hand to his aching head. Aside from giving him a migraine that was about nine on the Richter scale, the music had also made him partially deaf. When he opened his eyes, he became partially blind, as well. She'd been serious about the party with the sewer rats.

Bright lights, whizzing around the room like a kaleidoscope, were having their straight lines interrupted by the people that they fell across. And boy, were there people. They were _everywhere_, doing what looked like every_thing_. A wide range of people, mostly attired in jeans that clung like a second skin, and with piercings in the most unlikely of places, gyrated through Ron Weasley's small apartment, crammed into the small space and not seeming to mind in the least.

Draco noticed the number of red plastic cups in people's hands, which were being drunk from as if containing the last oxygen on the planet. Trying not to breathe, Draco jumped to his feet and started weaving through the crowd. Judging from the smell in here, of sweat and sex and smoke, it _could_ be the last supply of oxygen, in this apartment, at least.

He decided, quite emphatically, that he needed to find the mentally incapacitated Granger who was responsible for this... _rabble_... in their apartment. With beer, no less.

He found her quite easily, downing a number of those aforementioned beers as she stumbled unsteadily against the tall, buff man who she was speaking to. Draco observed with distaste that this man was probably the only one in the room – with the exception of himself – who was dressed not-retardedly. And Hermione wound up talking to him. _Great._

Hermione herself had dressed up. She was wearing a black dress, which, in his opinion, began too low and ended too high. It didn't cover anywhere near enough of her, also in his opinion, and the guy she was chatting with seemed intent on getting it to cover even less of her, judging by the way his hand casually brushed the strap off her shoulder.

She didn't seem to mind, either. Draco was fairly certain that if she wasn't completely and utterly wasted, she might have a few objections, but under current circumstances, all she was doing was taking another hefty gulp of the contents of the cup in her hand.

He didn't know what to do. He was renowned – well, by himself, at least – for being a confident person, always ready with a solution in a time of crisis. This definitely fell into the 'crisis' category – Hermione was _this_ close to being thrown against the wall and ravished by someone other than him, for Merlin's sake! – and he hadn't a clue how to fix it.

He could have, of course, barrelled up to the stupid lump who was so unsubtly trying to undress her, and popped him one in the face before leading Hermione valiantly away. But that mightn't have worked, because he was fairly sure that the guy could punch him out cold with one finger.

So he slunk away, and pressed himself against a section of wall that wasn't being utilised as a mattress, and tried to look inconspicuous as he kept an eye on Hermione. It was all he could do, really. Not without sacrificing his own health or sanity or something, and he wasn't _that_ grateful to her.

A beer and a half of Hermione's later, and the man had dragged her onto the dance floor, where, Draco wasn't surprised to discover, Hermione did _not_ excel. Of course, that may have been the cloud of alcohol, but it was still slightly embarrassing to watch. Actually, what was more embarrassing was how painfully unsubtle the man's attempts were to bring her closer, and to get his hand down her top.

He looked away, not wanting to have his brain any more scarred than need be. His gaze met with a curious green one, that penetrated him like a laser beam. It was the girl who he had caused a car accident to get to.

They began to move towards each other at the same time. Draco was pleased to see that there were now _three_ normally dressed people here. She was wearing a purple shirt this time, slightly more dressy but with an inscription that read, '_My face is up here._' She seemed to be pleasantly surprised by his appearance as well, once she finished appraising him critically. Draco didn't think he needed to mention that these clothes were the same ones he'd been sleeping in for a couple of weeks.

"Hey," she said, her accent sharp and different from his and Hermione's and everyone who'd been at Hogwarts. He realised suddenly that this was the same accent as everyone else in this crowd of people. He and Toto sure weren't in Kansas any more.

"Hello," he said, flashing her his most crookedly fantastic smile. "How're you going?"

Her bright eyes raked around their surroundings, and she said, still in that strange accent, "Truthfully? I'm a bit disturbed."

"Oh? I must say, I agree whole-heartedly, but I doubt it's for the same reason." His eyes slid over to Hermione, who had the idiot grinding against her now.

The girl's eyes followed. "No, different reason, I'd say."

Draco was just about to inquire about whether or not she felt like dancing with him, when he noticed that Hermione was attempting to hit the man she was dancing with. The man pulled her closer, and Hermione struggled to get away.

"I'm sorry," he said hastily to the green-eyed girl, and dashed to Hermione's side. "Hi, sweetheart! Oh, thanks for looking after her. She goes insane when she's got some drink in her. Hey, honey, where'd you put your ring?"

The man, eyes wide, stepped back. Draco was now free to put an arm protectively around Hermione's waist, place a light kiss on the side of her head, and come face to face with the bulky guy, who, he was pleased to see, was an inch shorter than him now that they were close.

"Well, as I said, thanks." His voice dropped into menacing tones, and he added, "Just a warning, if you ever _touch_ her again, I will have no qualms about killing you." _Once I get a wand, that is_, he added in his head.

The man scowled, and disappeared. Hermione sagged against Draco, forgetting her utter dislike of him momentarily.

"Erm," he said verbosely.

Hermione groaned loudly. He knew what he had to do. He was going to be brave, and put an end to this monstrosity of a party.

He picked up a phone that was lying on a chair and called 911, having recalled the number from a lady shrieking it after the car crash. A few minutes later, loud sirens burst from the darkness outside, the flashing lights serving to terrify the crowd even more. Everybody scattered, and within minutes, the place was deserted. Filthy, but deserted.

Draco dashed down the stairs and ran into the policewoman. "Hi, Constable. I'm so sorry I had to call but when my girlfriend and I got home, there was this huge party going on and I didn't know what to do..."

He flashed her a smile, which, in his opinion, should have won an award. The policewoman melted. "They seem to be gone now. Is the situation under control, or would you like police protection?"

"I-I think we'll be fine," he said, trying to look traumatised and doing a marvellous job of it. "I've just got to go comfort my _girlfriend_."

He wasn't exactly sure why he got so much savage pleasure out of informing people that Hermione was his 'girlfriend', but it was enough to put a skip in his step as he jogged back up the seven flights of stairs.


	6. Escape

_Chapter 6_

_Escape_

The sight that awaited Draco Malfoy as he entered the tiny apartment shocked and, at the same time, softened him. Hermione Granger was sitting on the floor, curled up with her arms around herself, as if trying to keep herself from falling apart. Draco knew the feeling, and empathised thoroughly.

"Hermione, what're you-" he began to ask, but realised that perhaps that wasn't the most tactful way to go about it.

He sat beside her, his back against the wall. "Is it about what happened before, with the guy?"

She looked up, and he saw that she was crying. It wasn't like in the movies, one long tear slowly making its way down the heroine's face, as she still managed to look proud and beautiful. Her eyes were red, her makeup was running, her hair was a mess... but somehow, he managed to look past that, even look past her heritage and what a crazy bitch she was – not giving him her wand, _honestly_, who did she think she was? – and pat her cautiously on the back.

"Er... is that what's wrong, Hermione?"

"I'm a s... s... _slut_!" wailed Hermione.

"What?" asked Draco suddenly. "Who told you _that_?"

"Nobody needed to," she hiccupped. "Don't pretend you didn't see me, dancing with that _jerk_."

"You were drunk," Draco reminded her.

"Ron insinuated it on the... on the..."

"On the mangled remains of what used to be a telephone?" asked Draco amusedly, but saw that the tears were falling faster with the mention of Weasley. "Oh, Hermione. It's Weasley you're upset about, isn't it?"

"Yes," she sniffled. "He's a bloody _maniac_, honest to God!" She burst into another hearty round of tears. Draco was stuck. He didn't know what to do. He kept patting her back, and the hiccups died down enough for her to choke out, "He left me, you know... we lived here... together... and I was at work and when I got home there was a note on the fridge that said that he'd gone off with Pansy and that I could leave once he got back."

"Oh," said Draco, wincing. "Ouch."

"He called, too. To make sure I... I... _watered the plants_." She let out a hacking laugh that quickly transitioned into a sob, and she flung her arms around Draco and cried into his shoulder.

Strange thing was, he _let_ her. There was something strangely _nice_-feeling about having a living, breathing human being soaking his only shirt with her tears.

"I... I _loved_ him," she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I know you did."

Draco didn't know how long they sat there, slumped on the filthy floor with their arms somehow around each other, but when Hermione's sobs faded into deep, sleeping breaths, he carried her into her bedroom, laid her on the bed, stifled all dirty thoughts and covered her with a blanket before he left.

He crept back out and tried to get comfortable on the couch. He lay there for a few hours, until he couldn't stand it anymore and yanked a lighter out from beneath his spinal cord.

"Draco?" asked Hermione timidly, standing in the doorway.

He slid to the floor and looked up at her. "Mmm? You all right?"

She shook her head. "Can I... do you think I could sleep out here with you? I just... I can't be alone right now."

He nodded. She stumbled gratefully over and collapsed against the couch beside him. Within minutes, her head had drooped onto his shoulder, and she was asleep again. He arranged the pathetic excuse for a blanket over the both of them as best he could – though it seemed to have doubled in size overnight – and looked over at her, peaceful and serene, before he fell asleep himself.

The morning was hell, even though he hadn't had anything to drink. He looked at Hermione. And clutched his head. A loud groan emitted from his mouth.

_Ouch._

He glanced around. Used beer cups were scattered on the ground, the couch looked like it had seen its final days, and there was an excess of unidentified liquid spreading in a dark stain all over the carpet. He could have cleaned up. He could have, at least, shoved the muck in the opposite direction to make a patch of clean floor to sit on. But no. Instead, he hauled Hermione to her feet, dragged her into her bedroom, and opened her wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" she asked, eyes widening slightly as Draco started dumping armful after armful of Hermione's clothing on the bed.

He glanced at her, and then at the growing mound of clothing. Who would have thought little un-materialistic bookworm Hermione Granger would have so much bloody stuff?

"Pick something, unless you'd like to wear that for the next twenty-four hours," he advised.

She looked suspicious, but Draco didn't really care. She tentatively grabbed a pair of jeans, a red sweater and a long sleeved shirt – none of which bore any insulting messages, but ah well – and hooked them over her arm before looking expectantly at Draco. He shoved her towards the bathroom, which, he had discovered, had a shower which deserved a death sentence. Horrible water pressure. It alternated between shooting little bullets of water at you so hard it felt like you were dying, or trickling petulantly from the spigot – all ice cold, of course.

Hermione, he was pleased to see, went without complaint. He was glad. She smelt like a brewery, mixed with a hint of second hand smoke and just a tad of salt water.

Once she was out of the way, he could get to work at the task at hand. Crouching on the ground beside the queen-sized bed, he – wincing emphatically in the hopes that it would summon some magical creature to do this for him – lifted the bedspread and glanced under it. He cringed back, retching from the smell and blinking furiously at the sight. It was crammed with old socks, mouldy food and porn... Ronald's, he assumed. Hermione's things were all neatly hung in the wardrobe.

He crawled over to the cupboard instead, and uprooted an age-old suitcase. It was massive, and dusty, but it would do. After shaking it out carefully on Ron's floor, he began to punctiliously fold and pack Hermione's clothes in the suitcase. It was a surprise to find out that he was actually _enjoying _himself, sorting through her clothes, mentally deciding which ones would work best together, and – also in his mind, of course; he wouldn't dare to voice his opinions to a hungover Hermione – berating her for some of the purchases she'd made.

When he reached her underwear drawer, he pulled up short. As much as Draco would have liked to get in there and see whether she was a boxers or briefs sort of man, he liked his life, thanks very much.

Hermione walked out of the bathroom, hair damp but looking slightly more alert. She looked at him, and then at the suitcase on her bed, and wordlessly went over to her underwear drawer and upended it into the suitcase.

Draco winced. It did _horrible_ things to clothes when they were wrinkled. Even if it's underwear.

Still without saying a word, she walked back to the bathroom, and re-emerged with an armful of toiletries, which went in on top. She zipped up the suitcase, tugged it off the bed, and asked simply, "Where are we going?"

For once, Draco all knowing, quick thinking Malfoy didn't have an answer. The best he could come up with was a simple, "Away," before holding out his hand.

She glanced at it once, and then hesitantly stretched her own hand out to take it. Draco looked at their entwined fingers for a moment, before gently tightening his grip and pulling her towards the door.


	7. Prove Me Wrong

_Chapter 7_

_Prove Me Wrong_

It occurred to Draco, as he stood on the pavement of the cold street, Hermione's hand still encased in his own, and her suitcase pulling his arm out of its socket, that he actually didn't have a plan. All he knew was that he had to get Hermione out of there before she imploded from all of the memories that hung around that place like cobwebs.

Another thing he wasn't sure about was why he was doing this for her, because really, she'd made it quite clear that she detested him more than she did any other spineless git on the planet. He didn't really have an excuse for forcing her out of her apartment and making her live on the streets until they found a new place of residence. The only justification he could come up with, after an age of racking his brain in the freezing cold, was that she had taken him in, helped him when he needed help most, and that now that she wasn't exactly fine, he ought to repay the favour.

That hadn't been the thought going through his mind when he'd steered her out of the apartment, though.

"Draco," she began timidly, the old Hermione back again.

"Yes?" he responded, flashing her his bestest smile with faint hopes that she actually had a half-decent plan.

"Thank you," she whispered, and he suddenly thought that this was much better than a plan.

He stuck out his hand, the way he'd seen someone do earlier, and almost immediately, a yellow taxi skidded to a halt beside them. A pot-bellied, moustached driver rolled down the window and asked, "Want the boot popped?"

Draco had no idea what that meant, and thought that it sounded rather inappropriate, but Hermione nodded wearily and said, "Yes, please."

The trunk of the car opened with a click, and Draco realised that it hadn't been a rude innuendo after all. He heaved the suitcase into the cavity, and slid into the back seat beside Hermione.

"Where 'ya wanna go?" asked the cab driver, turning around and sending a wolfish grin at them.

"Anywhere but here," suggested Draco, but Hermione cut in with a slightly more sensible, "Could you take us to the train station?"

Draco objected, with a slightly '_hmph'_, "Hey! _I'm_ calling the shots of this spur-of-the-moment getaway, thanks very much! I'll do you one better... to the _airport, _please!"

Hermione tilted her head on its side, as the cab swerved into the lane and the driver swore. "How do you know what an airport is?" she asked in a whisper.

"I know stuff," he said smugly. He _had_ heard of a few general Muggle terms, even if he didn't know what 'popping the boot' meant.

"I'm sure you do," said Hermione, settling back against the leather and closing her eyes. She looked tired, or upset. Quite possibly a mixture of both, considering that she'd been drunk only a few hours before, lost quite a sizeable chunk of her dignity in front of her worst enemy, and been evicted from her place of habitation by aforementioned worst enemy.

Draco was quite excited. He'd never been in an airplane, but he sure was looking forward to it. He wondered where they would go. It all depended, he supposed, on where the lovely airplane cared to take them. He didn't particularly mind, as long as Hermione didn't cry too much and he had a nice time. A holiday would do them all good, although where they'd get the money for this holiday was another question entirely.

"Hermione, dear?" he said hesitantly.

Hermione opened her eyes – he'd never realised what a nice colour they were – and looked at him inquisitively. "Yes?"

He had been _going_ to comment on their lack of funds or ideas, but chickened out and instead responded meekly, "Just going to remark upon the... er... scenery."

With a dramatic hand wave, he peeked out the window to see if the scenery was anything to remark upon. It wasn't. They were going through a tunnel.

Hermione gave a little snort that could have been amusement, which quickly subsided into stifled sobs.

_Here we go again, _thought Draco, not unpleasantly, and made a tentative attempt at patting her on the back. The cab driver seemed a little uneasy with having a crying girl in the backseat of his car. Probably thought her tears would damage the upholstery. Draco cast a critical glance over the cracked, faded leather of the seats with a distasteful look on his face, before turning his attention back to Hermione.

"Hermione, love, it's just a tunnel. I mean, I suppose they're a little depressing, but really dear, tunnels are nothing to cry over."

She laughed, a slight pause in the crying, before she returned to her new favourite pastime again.

Draco made a circle on her back with his hand, remembering how his nanny had used to do that for him as a child when he was sad. It seemed to help, too. At least, it made her stop crying and start slashing away at the tears on her cheeks. Then she gave him a strange look, sat up straight, and angled herself away from him.

He sighed, defeated. It had only been a matter of time, before she remembered that he was _Draco Malfoy_, and that she ought to be staying the hell away from him.

"Still to the airport, kids?" asked the cab driver uncertainly.

"Yes." Hermione's voice was clipped and tense, but Draco noticed her sneak a sideways glance at him.

"Right-o," said the cab driver, cheerful now that he knew his high fee would remain the same.

Draco tried to content himself with looking firmly away from Hermione, towards the dusty, bug-splattered window of the car. Well, it sure wasn't contenting. All he saw was city, the strange, unfamiliar place that he wasn't exactly sure he liked. Some bits were okay, he supposed. Hermione, for one. But it was still bizarre.

"All right, kids. Here we go. That'll be thirty fifty."

The boot popped, Hermione pressed a wad of the pretty green paper into the cabbie's grimy outstretched hand, he deposited a handful of assorted coins back into hers, and Draco realised that they were dismissed. He lugged Hermione's suitcase out of the trunk, and leant it against his leg as he looked up at the building in front of him. It was big; he'd give it that.

"What are you looking at?" asked Hermione, looking at him like he was mentally disabled.

"Nothing," he lied, and strode forward through the glass doors. The noise hit him like a brick wall. There were so many people in there, all talking excitedly about where they were going and who they would see.

Hermione's small hand suddenly found his, and he was being pulled forward. He wondered at the contact; she'd shied away from looking at him after dissolving into sobs against his chest. Strange girl... he supposed that all of those years with Pothead and Weaselbee hadn't exactly been great for her mental health.

He realised that they were standing in front of a wall upon which was perched a particularly nifty looking device that he'd seen in Muggle homes before. It was a slightly glowing box which displayed a list of the outgoing flights.

"So," began Hermione, her eyebrows slightly together as she studied the box, "where do you want to go?"

He squinted a little to read it properly. Paris, Sydney, Tokyo, Singapore... London. _London_.

"We are going," he said majestically, with a wave of his wonderfully sexy hand, "to _London_."

Hermione's facial expression hinted that perhaps she wasn't too keen on that idea. So did her comment.

"Are you insane?"

He wasn't exactly sure what she expected his answer to be, but he responded meekly, "Uh... no?"

"_Are you insane?_"

"Darling, my answer hasn't exactly changed in the past two seconds. How about a new question, yeah?" He tried to steer her towards the promising-looking desk that appeared to have people lining up beside it.

She resisted, in typical pigheaded Hermione Granger style.

"Okay, new question," she said slowly. "What the _hell_ do you expect me to do in _London_, of all places? It was all I could do to get away from there in the _first_ place!"

He changed route and brought her over to the uncomfortable chairs. Thankfully, she let him this time. She collapsed into the seat, without relenting in her attempt to physically _burn someone alive_ just by glaring at them.

Draco pulled back his collar with one hand and fanned his face with the other. "Boy, is it just me or is it hot in here?"

"Actually, I think it just got icy cold," she said, fittingly enough, her voice covered in a frost of freezing contempt. Normally, it'd be dripping with the stuff, but the chilly atmosphere had frozen anything not already in solid form. So, Hermione's fury was well and truly solid, and sailing towards his face at a million miles a minute.

He didn't even have time to duck.

"Really, Draco," she said, sounding irritated. "You've got to be kidding me. _You_ of all people know that... well, everyone is in London. Everyone I used to know and hoped never to speak to again... you were in that category, by the way. I-"

Draco was – needless to say, what with his highly original sense of humour – greatly amused by this. "Gosh, Hermione. If I didn't know any better, I _might_ say that you've got a bit of unfinished business with London. What'd it do, call you a nasty name?"

She scowled at him, and all at the same time, she folded her arms, crossed her legs and flipped her hair, managing to look flippant and furious as she pursed her lips. He took a step back.

"Whoa," he announced, and then sat beside her. "But seriously, what's wrong with London? It's no 'city that always sleeps', but..."

She gave him a stare so withering that he almost crumpled over. Averting his gaze to his fingers (since continuing to look at Hermione was a death wish he didn't have) he suspected that they _did_ look a little brown, like they'd had weed killer poured on them.

"That's 'the city that _never_ sleeps', _Malfoy_, and my issues with London are, frankly, none of your business."

He rolled his eyes. "And I'm sure _it's_ marvellously fond of you as well. You know, I think you're afraid."

Hermione, who had been gazing listlessly at the planes taxing in through the huge glass wall, looked at him contemptuously. "I am not _afraid_ of a _city._"

"No, you're right," he agreed. "You're afraid of the people in it."

"Am not," she sniffed, turning up her nose like a three year old. Or, if you were Draco Malfoy, a nineteen year old. He himself'd only dropped the habit recently.

"You go around pretending to be all badass with your leather boots and your jacket," he continued, "but really, deep down, you're still just as insecure and unsure of yourself as you were on your first day at Hogwarts. You still try to avoid the things you don't like rather than confront them, and you still care what people think about you."

He wasn't sure if he was hoping to bring about an astounding epiphany from her about how he was absolutely right, and how she wanted him to throw her against a wall and ravish her, but he did have a fairly accurate idea of what she'd do if he wasn't quite that lucky.

If there was one thing he knew about Hermione Granger, it was that she didn't disappoint.

"_Fine_," she exclaimed, her hair seeming to frizz a little and her cheeks seeming to flush. It was like they were kids again, arguing in the library over whether her blood was filthy, or whether he was a prick. He still didn't know if she'd ever told Potty or Weasley about those little fights, when they weren't around to back her up. "_Fine_," she repeated. "If I'm so_ scared_, as you seem to think I am, then I'll prove you wrong." She jumped to her feet, and started to stride away.

Another thing about Hermione Granger: you piss her off enough, you press all the right buttons... she'll do whatever you can manage to manipulate her into doing. She _hated_ losing, especially if it was to a Malfoy.

Draco stood there, momentarily stunned at her outburst. Then, he smiled to himself, and silently commended himself for a job well done.

She whipped around, hands on her hips. "Are you coming?" she snapped. "Because I'd really like _clothes_ to wear while I'm out there proving you wrong."

"One person's opinion, my dear," he said pleasantly, refraining from vocalising some of the slightly more graphic thoughts that had popped into his head upon the mention of Hermione Granger and her possible lack of clothes.

She stormed up to the desk and snapped, "Two tickets – one way, please – to _London_." She shot back at him a meaningful look as if to say, 'See there, dickhead. I can do it'.

He nodded encouragingly, gesturing for her to continue. As in, pay, and get them out of there.

The poor attendant at the counter looked slightly terrified. Draco didn't blame her. He was scared of Hermione as well, sometimes.

"Erm... ec-economy, business class or first... first class?" she stammered.

"I don't particularly feel like the cattle pen," snapped Hermione. "I think first class might be suitable." With that, she handed over a shiny gold credit card. Draco knew what that one was, and he knew that Hermione couldn't be earning enough at her little horse piddle place to have one of those, and to be able to dole out first class plane tickets like they were two cent lollies.

All was revealed, however, when the girl looked closely at the name on the card, and stammered, "Mr... Mr _Zabini?_ You know _Blaise Zabini?_"

Hermione smiled sweetly, the last blast in a series of devastating attacks. That was it, the girl's will was shattered. She immediately punched buttons on her computer thing, and out slid two sheafs of paper. She didn't even ask to see identification or anything. Draco wasn't sure, having little experience with that sort of thing, but it seemed a little odd.

"Free of charge, of course. Anything for a friend of Mr Zabini's. H-have a nice flight," stuttered the poor girl.

Draco had to jog to keep pace with Hermione. "Wow!" he exclaimed, dumping her bag at the check in, glad to have finally regained full use of his arms. "That was _a-mazing!_ How do you stun people like that?"

"I _don't_," she snapped, obviously still snarky with him.

"Well, Hermione Granger," he declared, smiling pleasantly at her. "I think you might just be my new hero."

Hermione responded with a rude-sounding and particularly out-of-character, "Eat my shorts," before hastening her pace and striding away from her.


	8. At the Airport

_I'm going to try and be far more prompt with my updates, from now on. Recently, I had some spare time, so I've got a few more chapters loaded up, ready to be launched into cyberspace. Mostly, though, thank you to all of you who have kept with me despite the inconsistent updates and incredibly tedious author's notes... and please keep up the feedback to keep me motivated. _

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_Chapter 8_

_At the Airport_

The metal detector was a thrilling experience for Draco. He smiled eagerly as they latched onto the end of the line. He snickered slightly when a man had forgotten to remove two of his seven wristwatches. He laughed out loud when the machine emitted a loud beeping as Hermione walked through it.

The guard ran a strange looking device over her – funny, how they chose modern, new-fangled technology which meant having to turn down the opportunity to feel up an attractive young woman – which beeped as it passed her chest. Draco looked on eagerly, in case they made her take off her shirt.

Unfortunately, they didn't, because Hermione gasped in realisation and hauled out a slightly battered looking locket. She seemed a little unwilling to unclip it, but did, and dropped it into the plastic crate with the rest of their metallic belongings.

Draco, of course, perfect being that he thought he was, went through without a hitch, and bounced excitedly all the way to the plastic waiting chairs they'd vacated shortly before.

"Oh, would you _stop that_!" snapped Hermione. "You're behaving like a toddler."

"Nuh uh," he said, maturely extending his tongue in her general direction. "Hey, want to get me some food?"

"Is that all you think about?" she asked disapprovingly, and put a bill in his hand. "There. Are you happy now?"

He stared at the note in his hand as if it were alien to him. "You expect me to go get my _own_ food?"

"Yes."

He laughed. "Fat chance of that."

She opened a book lazily and started to flip through it.

"Seriously, Hermione. I don't _buy_ things. I am _given_ them, although I would accept some food which had been bought by someone _else_, hint hint, and given to _me_."

She yawned slightly as she turned the page, her eyes not straying from the small print on her page.

"You know," he tested experimentally, "I really shouldn't be allowed in a place with so many possible purchases and some money. I give in very easily to temptation. I get sidetracked. I have a short attention span. Think about it! It could be catastrophic. A slaughter of epic proportions."

She rested the book against her thigh, face down as its spine held her place, while she drew most of her hair back into a pony tail.

"Okay," he said, dramatically standing up. "But don't blame _me_ if I come back with my arms full of dirty magazines and key chains that fart when you squeeze their eyeballs."

She stood up immediately, replacing her book in her bag and hurrying after him. He smirked, led her into an interesting looking shop, and said under his breath, "Works every time."

Her voice was closer than he expected, and he could feel her warm breath brushing against his neck, as she muttered, "I will _not_ hesitate to curse your arse off, Draco Malfoy."

A short, stocky man nearby whipped around, a menacing expression on his face. "Draco Malfoy?"

Draco turned his face away, so that whoever it was – and he had a strong suspicion that he knew who it was – couldn't see him. Hermione's hand brushed against his arm as she quickly raised it to her ear, as if on the phone to someone, and he could tell by her tone that she was smiling her most melting smile.

"Hang on a second, Malfoy. Don't _go_ anywhere," she said, obviously pretending to speak into the mobile telephone that had appeared in her hand. She purposely bumped into Draco, and said hastily, "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. That was my fault."

Draco noticed the one emphasised word: go. He went, taking a few steps forward and pretending to admire a magazine he plucked from the rack, or weaving into another aisle. He could sense the pig's eyes on his back as he heard Hermione exclaim, "Hi! Do you know Draco?"

"You could say that," grunted the man.

Draco peered through the gaps of two newspapers on the shelf. The man was taking a few steps towards where Draco had just disappeared, and Hermione matched his steps casually, as if wanting to keep up the conversation.

"Oh really? How do you know him?" she asked, leaning against a stand of magazines. She offhandedly picked one up and flicked it open, her eyes still intent upon the man as she awaited his answer.

It was the eyes that seemed to give it away. Hermione's eyes, Draco had had occasion to observe before, betrayed her inmost feelings. They were whirlpools of chocolate brown, the eye of which let everything she really felt feed through. They were beautiful eyes, but not too helpful in this situation.

She must have had some knowledge of her eyes being like that, because she removed her gaze from his face for a moment to replace the magazine, and place two colourful rectangular things on the counter.

"Old classmate, perhaps?" she prompted, glancing quickly at the man before passing the girl at the counter a note.

"Our fathers were friends," he said, giving a menacing grin.

"How... nice," Hermione managed, before hurriedly adding, "Well, must be off. Nice talking to you!"

She high-tailed it out of there. Draco hung around for a second to watch the pug-faced man look around for a second, before waddling after Hermione.

_Now_, he thought dryly, _would be a _really _good time to have a wand with me._

He took off after Hermione, taking a roundabout route that would ultimately lead him to where she was standing with her head against the wall, looking depressed.

"Hermione," he hissed as he walked past her, not stopping, just in case the pug was still watching. "Hermione, we need to get out of here."

A loud female voice, kind of like the ones at the Ministry of Magic, began to boom from the ceiling. "Flight Seventy-Three to London, please go to Gate Two. This is a boarding call for Flight Seventy-Three to London. All passengers please go to Gate Two."

They glanced at each other, and then looked up. Hanging over their heads was a huge sign, upon which was printed, 'Gate Three'. Draco grabbed onto her arm, and tugged her towards the line of people in front of the tunnel. It was a nerve-wracking two minutes, as the line inched forward. However, Hermione's hand on his arm was a strange reassurance, and, funnily enough, they didn't get any curses shot at them.

When they were about second from the front of the line, Draco heard a shout.

"Oi! Malfoy! Didn't think you could escape forever, did you?"

As the person before them was ushered forward onto the plane, Draco showed his ticket and Hermione's to the woman, with a pleading, "Please, hurry."

She seemed a tad taken aback, but, as Draco knew full well, most women were when he spoke to them. Because of his incredible handsomeness, you see.

They raced onto the plane, cutting off her smiling, "Have a nice flight!" They were led to the front of the plane by another smiling, large chested woman, who, once they were sitting in plush cream seats, gasped in recognition and leant in close to Hermione.

Draco had to concentrate hard to hear. "You're... are you _Hermione Granger_?" asked the woman, sounding slightly awestruck.

Hermione nodded, looking confused. "Yes, but... how do you know me?"

"You've done great things for the world," said the woman solemnly. "And... erm... your _friend_ there must be Draco Malfoy."

He smiled, glad that his name had come up. He'd been getting bored of the lack of attention. "That's me. It's nice to meet you..." He squinted to read her nametag. "Sophie."

"Uh... you too. Was that... was that a _Death Eater_ yelling after you?"

"I'm afraid so."

She nodded. "Don't worry. The Ministry appointed a team of wizards or witches to every airport in the world. Anti-terrorism and all that. I'm qualified to fry his ass off."

"Reassuring," said Draco with a smile.

As an expensively dressed woman who Draco, under other circumstances, would have hit on, was led to a seat in front of them, Sophie straightened up and said loudly, "Well, enjoy your flight. If there's anything you need, feel free to let one of us know."

He winked at her – provoking a disgusted groan from Hermione – and settled back into the seat. _This_ was the way to travel... much for fitting for a Malfoy than _Floo_ powder. Honestly... was he _really_ expected to cover his beautiful hair and his beautiful clothes and his beautiful _self_ with _soot_ every time he wanted to go borrow money from Blaise?

He was, and he didn't like it. Society just didn't appreciate his qualities the way they ought to.

"So," said Hermione, resting her elbow on the armrest and cupping her chin in her hand. "A Death Eater, Draco?"

Draco cast an urgent glance at the few people around them. Hermione poked the air in front of her, and her finger stopped. Draco tried as well. His finger was stopped mid-journey by an invisible barrier. He knew what this meant. She'd cast some sort of tricky undetectable magic that silenced the space they were in, and he had a feeling she'd created an illusion to cover up what they were really doing.

Like poking thin air.

"A _Death Eater_?" she said again. This time, her voice was high and frantic. "Are you _joking_?"

"It wasn't like I sent him an invitation!"

"But he _came_ anyway!"

"Look, Hermione, I can't change my past. People are always going to not be too fond of me, but you _knew_ that when you took me in!"

He exhaled, waiting for her reaction.

To his surprise, she was silent. She rummaged in her pocket, passed him one of the things she'd bought, and closed her eyes for a moment.

"What's this?" he asked warily, pinching it between his finger and thumb and inspecting it. "Poison of some kind?"

"It's chewing gum," responded Hermione, her eyes still closed. "You'll need it going up."

One eyebrow handsomely raised, he ripped open one end. A cube fell out, wrapped in waxy white paper. He peeled the paper away and sniffed it cautiously before depositing the cube in his mouth.

To his surprise, his throat wasn't seized with a sudden allergic reaction, and didn't start to close up. It actually tasted _good_. Sweet and sugary, just like him.

"Wow! This is _cool_!"

It was even cooler when he managed to get it around his tongue, and blew. A giant bubble was created around his tongue, and he laughed. Laughing, he discovered, was not a good activity to do. The exhaled air popped the bubble, which then transferred itself to... all over his face.

Hermione's lips – pressed together in a thin line – opened slightly as a small laugh slid out.

He brought a hand to his face, frantically feeling the gum all over his cheeks and chin and nose. "No!" he moaned. "My beautiful face!"

Hermione snickered.

"Hermione?" he asked hopefully, giving her a sad smile. "Please?"

She shook her head, still smiling smugly. "I don't think so," she sang.

"I'll buy you a puppy!" he tried, conveniently neglecting to include in the equation that he would first have to steal her wallet to get funds to buy aforementioned puppy. Or, of course, he could just not follow through with his promise. Goodness knows it had happened before.

To his surprise, her eyes misted over with a sort of half-hidden longing, and her hands clasped in her lap as she said wistfully, "I've always wanted a puppy."

"Oh. Right. Erm... may I ask _why?_"

Draco had never had a dog – or a pet of any kind, for that matter. Dobby hardly counted, although he'd been remarkably good at fetching the sticks Draco threw. His father hadn't cared for a fluffy package of annoyance yapping around the Manor, and his mother hated animals unless they were sewn into a coat. Not that Draco had protested their decision to keep his childhood firmly pet-free. He didn't want anything getting fur all over his magnificent self. But now, thinking back, he could probably count it as another bad-parent strike against his mother and father. Seeing as he wasn't biased, and all.

"My mother's allergic to dogs," she explained. "So we just never had one. I didn't have _any_ pets until Crookshanks."

"Crookshanks?" asked Draco, raising one eyebrow in that way that he knew made him look attractive, but then he remembered. That hideous ball of mangled furry evilness that she'd lugged around with her since their third year. Funny, the things you forget.

"My cat."

"So, er... whatever happened to Crookshanks?" Draco tried not to sound too hopeful.

Her bottom lip shuddered a little. "He... he... he died. Hit by a car a few days after I moved here... uh, there... New York, that is."

He perked up, interested. "Is _that_ where we were? Isn't that... I dunno, something to do with apples?"

A beaming hostess meandered up to them, meaningfully flashing her pearly whites in his direction. He was more concerned with those two things about half a foot below those pearly whites, only half concealed by the crisp white shirt that was partly unbuttoned with the full intention of ensnaring poor, innocent boys like himself.

"Apple, sir?" she asked, biting down on her plump red bottom lip as she offered him a bright shiny green apple.

Draco noticed Hermione watching, her face divided into a strange mixture of half-amusement, half-thoughtful irritation. There were a few small furrows between her eyebrows as she watched the scene unfolding before her. It made him think that perhaps air hostesses didn't always go around offering people apples.

"Er..." He wasn't exactly sure how to turn down a woman who was almost flashing him, and who was smiling at him like she was suggesting something very dirty. But he did his best.

"No thanks. You see, they make me break out in these weird hives..." he explained, pointing to his face, which had never – to his knowledge – been blemished by something as unsightly as a _hive. _In fact, now that he thought about it, he only vaguely knew what a hive _looked_ like.

The woman looked a tad disgusted, but by no means repelled. She smiled seductively, and, with a sexy, "Oh well... more for me," took a huge bite out of the apple, the juice dripping down her chin as she licked her lips. "Dee-_licious._"

Now, Hermione looked downright _disgusted_.

"Looked like you enjoyed that," commented Draco.

The woman nodded emphatically.

"Mind enjoying it over _that_ way?"

She looked stunned. Had he... had he just _turned her down?_ Well, yes, yes he had, and he'd enjoyed it immensely as well.

Finally, Hermione cracked a grin, as the hostess stalked away, looking offended. Draco, impressed with himself for making her smile and ticking the chick off so badly, grinned back at her.

So, grinning like idiots, Draco and Hermione buckled their seatbelts and returned to their previous occupations: Hermione, flipping through a magazine, and Draco, trying to scrape the goo off his face. Both were happy in their mutual grinning-like-idiot-ness, and both were quite willingly coming to terms with the fact that they were in for a _long_ flight together.


	9. A Long Flight

_Chapter 9_

_A Long Flight_

Draco was bouncing around like a ferret – all bad memories had been successfully exploded many years before – in his seat, having extracted the last of the bubblegum from his handsome face. It had been a taxing task, and taken quite a while. Thirty-seven minutes, to be exact, and they were still on the ground. He was starting to get a bit sick of this whole flying thing, namely because the 'flying' bit didn't seem to be occurring.

"Oi. Hermione."

She didn't look up.

"Hermione Granger."

She lazily turned the page of her magazine.

"Hermione Jean Know-it-all Granger," he chanted. "Hermione. Hermione. Hey, Granger. Granger Granger Granger."

She stretched her hand up to her mouth and let out a yawn.

"Oi. Oi! Bloody flying _fu-_" An old lady in front of him turned and glared with such force that he skipped to the "Why the he- I mean, why aren't you listening to me?" part of his speech.

Then, Hermione looked up, and wrenched two white strings out of her ears. He poked at them. "What are-"

Intercepting his questions, she cast that funny bubble thing again, and replied, "IPod. Now, if you don't mind..."

"Hey! You can't go back to ignoring me! I'm really really bored!"

She looked up again, frustrated. "What do you _want_ from me, Malfoy?"

"Entertainment, perhaps a little-" Rather than inserting a few descriptive words that were sure to get him smacked – and not in the good way, either – he sent her a suggestive wink.

Her hand extended, and he took a moment to admire it. For hands that had probably never seen a manicure and had spent all of their time flipping through musty old books, they were quite nice hands. White and smooth and small, but not out of proportion... he liked those hands. He liked them increasingly more when they moved a little closer, to caress his cheek. Now, he was close enough to see that the nails were bitten, the cuticles damaged, and the entire thing marred by a few thin paper cuts. Never mind, he decided. They were still nice hands-

_SMACK!_

At least, they _had_ been, until the one stroking his cheek had lifted up and slapped him in the back of the head.

"Ouch!" he said, propelled forward by the force of her hit. "What'd you do _that_ for?"

She gave him such a look that everything went out of his head, including what he'd done to provoke such a cruel and vicious attack. How was he supposed to stay reasonable and logical when he had girls _glaring_ at him like that?

"Do you _mind?_" he asked indignantly. "I'm _trying_ to relax!"

"Oh, you little-" She looked rather cross, and curled her hand into a fist as if she wanted to... oh, _hit him_ or something.

"Not nice," he told her, and grabbed the magazine from her lap. "Hmm... so, who's Britney Spears?"

She snatched her magazine back, rolled it up, and made to hit him with it.

"Oi! Now, this whole 'not being nice to Draco' thing... we've _really_ got to work on that."

He was quite surprised that none of the air hostesses had noticed Hermione's attempts on his life, and done something about it. Although, the one who'd tried to crack onto him had probably warned them away from him. He didn't know why. He'd be perfectly open to the cracking-on of one – or more – of them who was a little less...

"Crude?" suggested Hermione.

He stared at her, mouth open in a way that made him look rather less dashing than usual. "How... did- how did- you... are you _psychic?_"

She raised one sculpted eyebrow and said slowly, as if explaining to someone who was mentally not-quite-there, "No... you were speaking aloud. I _heard_ you. With my _ears._"

He gasped. He'd been speaking _aloud?_

"Yes, you were."

He pointed at her frantically. "You did it again- oh. _Damn it!_"

She smirked into her magazine, and reinserted the funny white things into her ears.

_Probably does something to her brain,_ he thought knowledgably. _Injects some strange smart potion into it. Would explain a lot, actually._

"It plays music," remarked Hermione, eyes still firmly glued to a colourful picture in her magazine. When he looked confused, she glanced up, and pointed to the things in her ears.

"You've got to be kidding me. I was talking aloud, _again_?"

"No, you just looked confused. You know, Malfoy, you really ought to be able to distinguish whether or not you're talking in your head. It's quite disturbing that you can't, really."

With as much dignity as he could muster, Draco poked his tongue out at her and retorted, "Shut up!"

She rolled her eyes, and turned her attention away from him. Suddenly, a voice over the intercom babbled on about something or other – Draco was busily occupying himself with the colouring book in the pocket of his chair. He heard it mention 'take off' and 'immediately' and sat up straight in his seat, excited.

"Didja hear that, Hermione? Take off, immediately!"

She lazily flicked a disdainful glance over at him, and let her eyes roll up to the ceiling before she turned back to her lap. Draco was surprised to see that the flimsy magazine had been replaced with a thick, dusty book.

He sneezed. Loudly.

"That's disgusting," she remarked, lazily flipping the page. "Keep away. I don't want to be getting sick."

"Oh, now, that's _rich_," he snorted. "I sacrificed my only shirt to sit with you on that vomit-y floor!"

She went back to ignoring him, and Draco was bored again. But then, the plane jolted forward. Very slowly. He tapped his foot against the ground, unable to believe he had seriously gotten _excited_ over this. It was boring. _Way_ less fun than that taxi ride, with the driver swerving around and swearing at people.

He glanced across to check whether or not Hermione was surprised by the lack of fun-ness surrounding this stupid plane flight. She hadn't even looked up from her book.

Suddenly, the plane began to speed up.

"Woo hoo!" he cried, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

His head was being forced back onto the headrest behind him. '_Ew, nits,_' he thought briefly, before gripping onto the armrests and whooping a little louder. They were going fast now, so fast that it was so totally not boring anymore.

"This is _awesome!_" he cried, as Hermione struggled to turn the page against whichever strange force was pulling them backwards.

With another jolt, the plane lifted into the air. Draco burst out laughing, his endorphins or whatever the hell they were called being released at the same time as his ears popped.

"Argh!" he yelled, never having felt anything like this before. The plane levelled out, high in the air, and he shook his head to try and fix his ears. "Hey, Hermione," he said suddenly, a brainwave hitting him. "Can I borrow your wand? I promise I won't do magic with it."

She looked wary. "No."

He shrugged, and started rummaging through the pencil case in the pocket on the seat in front of him – being momentarily distracted by a cartoon of some fat cat on the front. Finally, with a whoop of triumph, he withdrew a pencil, and made to insert it into his ear...

"Don't do that," snapped Hermione, and the pencil was suddenly floating high above his head.

"Oi!" he cried, trying to leap for it. "My _ears_ hurt!"

"Well then you shouldn't have spat out your chewing gum, should you?" she retorted, jabbing her wand in his direction. His ears suddenly cleared, and he collapsed back against the seat in relief.

And then, he caught a glimpse of the world outside the window. His jaw dropped in awe. Travelling by Floo powder had nothing on this. It was so tiny and... tiny... and tiny...

"I just can't get over how tiny it is, y'know?" Draco chattered away conversationally, while he moved on to rummage through the contents of the seat pocket behind him, nose still pressed up against the window.

"You know they don't wash the windows, so you're probably pressing your face up against a bit of glass hundreds of other people's noses have touched?"

She didn't even look up from her book.

He stared at her. "How can you not think this is totally awesomely amazingly amazing?" he demanded, jabbing his thumb at the window, being _very_ careful not to touch it.

She matched his slightly high-pitched tone perfectly. "Because I've like totally seen it before!"

He growled at her, just one indistinguishable sound that sounded kind of like the heater in Hermione's apartment had when he'd tried to turn it on.

"Are you imitating my heater?" she asked curiously, momentarily distracted by the noises pouring from his throat.

He rubbed his neck and indignantly said, "No! This happens to be my trademark growl, thanks all the same!"

He tried to sit quietly for a few minutes, promising himself that for every thirty seconds he stayed still and quiet, he could perve on the air hostess for double that time.

Well, really, that wasn't a very smart bargain, he realised, because he checked out the hostess for a good two minutes on her way past. And of course, that meant he didn't have to be quiet for four minutes, right?

...Draco had never been very good at Math.

"Your knuckles are going white." Hermione was still immersed in her book, flippantly turning a page every nanosecond or so as she read through it.

Draco glanced down. He'd been holding onto the arm rests in an attempt to restrain himself. Huh. Hadn't realised he'd been doing that.

"Is there anything I can get for you, sir?" The girl was simpering, clasping her hands together as if it would be her life's greatest joy to do his bidding. He pretended to think for a minute, while _actually_ concentrating on her... assets.

"He'll have some water, thanks." Hermione's voice cut into his day dreaming like a rusty saw. He scowled at her, as she waved the air hostess on.

He leant towards her and hissed, "What was that for?"

She looked bored, her eyes straying from one page to the next. "I don't want you adding to our bill more than you have to. Water is cheap, and when you get up to use the bathroom after your third bottle I'll be given at least five minutes to myself while you have fun with the soap dispenser."

Wow. The girl was devious. Draco was _impressed_.

"Clever," he mused, rubbing his chin and imagining the moustache he wished he had. "I'm thinking of growing a-"

"Don't," advised Hermione immediately. "It'll blend into your skin and make it look like you've got a massive chin."

He stroked his chin a bit more, and decided that she was right. He moved to his upper lip-

"No. Not that either."

-and then to the skin just in front of his ear-

"Side burns? Don't even think about it, Malfoy."

He scowled. Perhaps facial hair just wasn't his thing. Perhaps he was supposed to remain baby-faced for the rest of his life. Perhaps he should get a tattoo or something to make him look more hardcore, less sixteen year old.

Thankfully, Hermione didn't feel obliged to add her opinion to _this_ private conversation with himself. She obviously wasn't bothering to exercise her mind reading powers anymore. Concentrating on that stupid book.

"What are you reading?" he inquired, leaning towards her to get a better look. All he saw was a big page covered in very small writing. Wow, _fun._ Just the sort of way _he'd_ like to spend a six hour flight.

"Book. You know, large, made of paper, you get them from libraries?"

He rolled his eyes with a disdainful scowl. As _if_ he didn't know what a _book_ is.

"I can see that, stupid head," he snapped. "_What_ book?"

The tip of her wand poked out of her sleeve. He shot a warning look at her, and glanced around to make sure nobody had seen. Coolly, as if she didn't give a damn, she yawned, and shot a little spark towards him.

"Her_mione!_" he shrieked, leaping out of his seat and slapping at his pant leg with the menu from the seat pocket. It was smouldering, burning a small hole through to his _leg_, and he swore his head off while he tried to put it out.

"Would you like me to put it out?" she offered, sounding faintly rueful.

"You bloody well _better!_"

"_Aguamenti,_" she muttered under her breath, just as Draco thought, '_Shit._'

He was sprayed with a jet of water, hitting him full in the chest with the spray catching his face and pants and neck. He was absolutely drenched, his skin stinging from the sharp pellets of water, and he was absolutely _pissed off._

"Hermione!" he bellowed, staring down at himself.

Everyone else around them continued going about their lives, reading the paper or sipping their drinks or bustling around offering people peanuts. Only he and Hermione were aware of their situation, and from the looks of it, only _he_ cared.

"Sorry. Missed."

With a smirk on her face and a careful wave of her wand, she dried him with a gentle continuous jet of warm air from the tip of her wand. He thought – with an expression of extreme distaste – that his hair must be _hideous._ A rueful glance down at his knee showed that at least the fire was out, although it had burnt a fairly large patch out of his – only pair of – pants.

"Damn," he commented, prodding at the slightly pink flesh beneath the hole.

Hermione looked pleased with herself. She leant towards him, and Draco got his hopes up. Yay! She was going to talk to him!

She smacked the back of his head and went back to her book.

Draco sighed. This flight was going to be a long one... for Hermione.


	10. Diagon Alley, Again

_Chapter 10_

_Diagon Alley, Again_

He had tired himself out, eventually, and decided that these six hours would be better spent sleeping or something rather than constantly bugging Hermione. Besides, he wasn't too keen on being set alight again, which seemed like a distinct possibility after he had whispered a long string of suggestive things in her ear, for the fourth time. So he had laid off with the annoying, and fallen asleep.

"Draco?" Her voice was actually soft, for once. She nudged his arm once, and was quick to pull away and wait for him to wake up. He blearily uncurled and winced. He had been sprawled uncomfortably across his seat and the one in front of him, in a position that was probably _very_ unhealthy for his poor spine. Once he was upright, though, he felt a bit better.

"Mmm?"

She gestured out the window. He followed the direction of her finger, and then pressed his face up against the glass again. Sure enough, he saw the dark storm clouds which perpetually hung over London, combining with the smoke from the chimneys to create one huge dark fog over the city.

"London," he breathed, his face breaking out into a wide smile.

"London," Hermione agreed dryly, not looking overly excited to see the city she'd been away from for so long.

"Buck up, chap," he tried to console her. "You're something of a celebrity here. It'll be _fun!_"

She didn't look like she believed him – but then again, who ever did? They waited until the plane landed – another _extremely_ fun experience – and went through the boring luggage-getting, customs-checking routine, and then emerged out into the familiar streets of London.

"Don't you just feel better already?" Draco asked enthusiastically, lugging her suitcase towards a taxi.

People were already turning to look at her – at them both, actually – pointing and whispering, a few letting out excited gasps.

"Look! It's her!"

"Hermione Granger!"

"Who's that blonde chap with her?"

"Why, it's the Malfoy boy!"

Finally, someone had the courage to come up and speak to her.

"Welcome back, Hermione."

Hermione smiled graciously at the boy who had spoken in a thick Irish accent. "Thanks, Seamus. Gosh... Seamus Finnigan. It's been _years. _What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone back to Ireland with that girlfriend of yours?"

"Came back to see my Ma, heading back now." With a final wave, the boy – Seamus Finnigan? Why did that name ring a bell? – disappeared through the doors of the airport, and Hermione exhaled.

"Who was that?" Draco asked curiously.

She stared at him. "You went to school with him for seven years! You _fought_ with him in the final battle! Are you _kidding_ me?"

He pasted a sweet smile on his face and pretended he knew exactly who it had been. "Of course I know who it is; old Seamus Finnigan! I was just messing with you, Hermione darling."

"_Don't_ call me darling," she reminded him, and climbed into the taxi.

He was contemplating asking where they were actually going to go. In concocting his great escape plan, he hadn't really thought beyond the actual arriving part. Hermione seemed to know where to go, though. She reeled off an address to the taxi driver, and settled back into the leather looking as at home as if she'd never left.

He remembered the last time he had seen Hermione in a taxi. It had been at Kings Cross Station, after the Hogwarts graduation that he had attended. As he'd climbed into his father's town car, he had seen a small figure behind them stepping out into the road, trunk trailing behind her, and extended her hand to call a taxi. He had watched her settle into the upholstery just as she was doing now, and gaze aimlessly out the window into the fog as the car had pulled out into the traffic. He remembered wondering why her parents hadn't been there to pick her up, and why they hadn't attended the small graduation ceremony Hogwarts managed to rustle up each year. He had found out later that they were in Australia, memories wiped completely blank and not remembering that they even had a daughter, let alone the date she graduated from Hogwarts.

The day after leaving Hogwarts, Hermione had packed up, wiped her bank account of everything she owned, and caught a plane to Australia to find her parents. They hadn't been there. Nobody had known what had happened; whether they were dead or alive or had just picked up and decided to swap countries. It had been all over the wizarding news, that Hermione Granger's Obliviated parents were M.I.A. and that Hermione searched for them for an entire year before she gave up and became a hermit in New York.

Now, it would be equally as publicised. Hermione Granger had returned to London after three years, and she had company.

Draco expected it'd make the headlines.

"Hermione! Nice to see you again!"

"How are you, dear?"

"It's been a while, Miss Granger!"

Voice flew at Hermione from every direction as they strolled aimlessly down the crowded street. Draco doubted that Hermione had known just how revered she was in the wizarding world. It had been rumoured that she had been offered jobs as an Auror, to work for the Minister for Magic, to teach at Hogwarts... She had turned them all down, but not in so many words. Her taking off without a goodbye to anyone had been refusal enough.

She had only kept in contact with a few people. Ron Weasley, of course. Pansy Parkinson, to a degree. Blaise, obviously. Draco wasn't sure if she had ventured to penetrate that circle of lovey-dovey goodness that encapsulated Potter and his little redheaded wife, but he knew that if she had, she would have been repulsed by it and ceased all contact. At least, he hoped so. He'd give her a hell of a lot more credit if she had finally realised what a bloody ponce Potter was.

"Where are we going?" he took the opportunity to ask cheerfully.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she retorted, obviously agitated by all of the attention.

She pulled up in front of a wall. A brick wall, blank and boring.

"Erm... Hermione? Lost?"

She took out her wand and, most business-like, tapped on the bricks. Draco was entertaining some rather cruel thoughts about Hermione's marbles when the bricks fell away to reveal... Diagon Alley.

"Seriously?" he asked, curiously turning his neck to look at the archway as she pushed him through it. "_Totally_ never knew that was there!" Whenever he had visited Diagon Alley, he'd always gone via Knockturn Alley, often stopping off at that horrible Borgin and Burke place with his father. He rued the day he'd first stepped foot in that store. It hadn't exactly done too well for him, though he was well past that part of his life.

It had taken him about a year to snap out of the gloom that the final battle had injected into him. He had felt guilty – so guilty, for the first time in his life – about his actions and the harm he'd gone, and he was scared shitless that the Order were going to hunt down his family for what they had done. He'd stayed until Lucius' reign of terror had ended, and then taken off. It was only when he was free from his family, in the last few days with Hermione, that he had actually felt _normal_ again.

"Come on." She pulled him inside a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. He could only just make out the name on the dirty old sign, and even then he had to squint to see past the thick layer of dirt. Inside, it was a depressing place. The sort of place one would go to, to sit and drown their sorrows with a pint or two.

"Hi, Tom." She sounded weary as she held out a handful of coins and was presented with two room keys. The bald man gave her a sad smile as he wiped out a glass. Either, he was reflecting the mood of his establishment, or he knew about her parents.

This excursion to London was _not_ what he had had in mind upon the first concoction of his plan. He had imagined bright lights and fun nights out and making Hermione forget about her crappy life and immerse herself in the new one he was creating for her... preferably without remembering that he was kind of obliged to her, and she kind of hated him.

Instead, it was dark and depressing. Since their touch down, he had thought a number of rather serious thoughts. He _hated_ it when that happened. He was supposed to be light and frivolous, wiping away the sins of times past and making up for it with an exuberance that was to be envied! He wasn't supposed to be – Merlin forbid – _serious. _Seriousness was for back then, when he'd been in fear of his life and bound to a sadistic monster. _Now_ was supposed to be the age for rebuilding the life that had been shattered. Everyone was supposed to be happy and joyful, and by all accounts, most of them were. Why was it, then, that two of the people who had most cause to be happy, three years after Voldemort's downfall, were both equally miserable and depressed?

It didn't make sense, and it wasn't fair. Yet, as he trudged up the creaky staircase to his room, he couldn't do anything to lift the mood that all this serious thinking had put him in.

He noticed, rather befuddled, that Hermione was pressing his own room key into his hand, and drawing her hand away quickly so as to not touch him for longer than was strictly necessary. Most of his confusion was due to the separate rooms – he'd grown accustomed to sharing living space with her, which was disturbing in itself – but there was also a fair amount of bewilderment on the other account also. Was he really that repulsive to her that she couldn't stand to touch him?

"Hermione," he began, not quite sure himself whether to comment on her facial expression, her disdain of touching his skin, or the unnecessary luxury of buying two separate rooms. He didn't have to decide, though, because he noticed that the strange welling up thing her eyes did had begun again. He quickly adjusted his previous sentence. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Her reply was quick, and a tear skidded down her face even faster than the word forced itself out of her mouth. "Go to your room. We'll decide what to do tomorrow."

He didn't, of course. When did Draco Malfoy ever follow _instructions?_ He waited until she'd stepped into her own room and then he followed her inside before she'd had a chance to close the door.

"Hermione." Matter-of-factly. He waited for her to 'fess up.

"What do you want, Draco?" she muttered thickly.

"Okay, I suppose I'll have to guess, then. Tell me when I get it right. You... came here with your parents? With Ron?" A strangled gasp told him he'd hit it. "With Ron. Hmm... that must have been that time in... what was it, third year? Okay... let me guess. He walked you to your door one night, and when you turned around from unlocking it, he gave you flowers and kissed you? No?"

"Oh, as if Ronald would think of _flowers_, for crying out loud," she mumbled hysterically. "That's such a... not-Ron thing to do. Unromantic bastard – his idea of a nice night out was feeling me up on the couch."

"Sounds like a dick," Draco chimed in sympathetically.

"He _was_, my _God_ he was! It took him until _seventh_ year to kiss me, and even after that he only ever asked me out once or twice. _God!_ I waited for him for _years_, but I would have been better off falling for someone like... someone like _Seamus _or _Neville._"

"Seriously? _Neville?_" Draco couldn't help but interrupt the ranting. He was surprised that she had considered _Longbottom_ before she'd thought of him. Really. It was astounding. _He_ would have made a _smashing_ boyfriend. Flowers? So up his alley. Poor girl. She'd landed a dropkick when she deserved... well, better than that.

"So _why_ are you crying about him?" he inquired. "If he was such a dirtbag?"

"I'm _not_ crying!" She almost yelled. Wow. Draco took a step back.

A few seconds later, he added, "You are, though. I can see. C'mon, talk to me."

"Why?" she retorted. "You gave me hell all through school and now you're forcing me to take care of you. Not exactly the ideal confidante I was looking for."

He _could_ have brought up the night before. He could have mentioned how he'd sat with her all night long. He could have referred to the rescue from that horrid man.

But he didn't, because he had, at least, enough compassion in him to realise that she needed to get this out. He could sacrifice his pride and his need to have the last word... this time, at least. So he backed slowly towards the door.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he told her, almost a warning, in case she'd been thinking of locking herself in and never seeing him again.

His hand was on the doorknob and his foot was out the door when he heard a small, "Draco?"

Whether he was in for a beating or an apology, he didn't know, but he turned around anyway. "Yeah?"

She was sitting on the bed with her arms around her knees, looking rather mournful as she stared at him with those big brown eyes of hers.

"Would you... I mean, erm..."

He wasn't much of a sadist – anymore – so he put a smile on his face and didn't force her to get the words out. "Stay? Love to. Want to get a bit soused and talk about our woes?"

She smiled, and he had a bit of a revelation. She was _pretty_ when she smiled. It wasn't a traditional sort of pretty; her hair was too bushy, her eyes too close together, her lips not quite full enough. It wasn't that sort of a pretty that radiated from her when she smiled. When the corners of her mouth turned up, it was like they were hardwired to her eyes, which sparkled and shone out at him in conjunction with the smile.

It was more than this realisation that astounded him... It was the fact that she was smiling for _him. _It had never really been his aim in life to make people happy, and he had never realised what he was missing out on. Of course, he wasn't about to drop everything and become a saint. The only person he really cared about making smile was _her._

It wasn't like he was in love with her or anything so stupid. He just wanted to see that smile again and know that _he_ was the reason for. And so, he was determined. He might even get a laugh out of her.

Hermione replied to his suggestion with a smiling, "Love to," and the door swung shut as Draco bounced into the room.


	11. Truth or Dare

_Chapter 11_

_Truth or Dare_

Draco let out a loud laugh, and then leant back against the bed. "Truth? Okay, okay, I've got one... first kiss."

Hermione groaned. "Dean Thomas, second year."

He let out a gasp, while Hermione threw back a swig of whatever amber liquid she'd moved onto when the gin had run dry. "No _way!_ _Thomas?_ Really?"

"Really," she confirmed. "I've never told _anyone_ about that. God, it's embarrassing."

"Come on! You've got to give me some details here! I told you about my first time drunk in extraordinary detail. You've got to give me something!"

"We were playing Zombies in the Dark one night in the common room – I'd been bribed to join – and I felt someone grab me and go, 'A _ha!_' and kiss me. I stumbled blindly around for a minute or so, until someone lit the lamps and I realised that it had been Dean. He looked horrified, I was horrified. We avoided one another for about a week and then he admitted that he'd thought I was Lavender. I was relieved – the idea of Dean liking _me_ had disgusted me, honestly – and we went on as normal. Happy?"

Draco snickered, and fell back onto his back on the carpet. "Nice. We all thought it would have been with Krum in fourth."

"Who's _we?_" she demanded indignantly. "And why were you thinking about who I'd kissed?!"

Draco flushed red. It was a good thing that Hermione was too tipsy to take any notice, because he was blushing like a sunburnt fire engine. The truth was, a group of fourteen year old Slytherins had taken bets between themselves to be the first to kiss her – for inordinate amounts of money, of course. It had been a standing gag between them, because they all thought that prudish little Granger would _never_ kiss a boy unless tortured into it. Draco, of course, had been part of the betting group. He had been certain that he could seduce Hermione, even subtly tried once or twice, until he had walked in on Krum and her kissing in the library and gone back to report the news to the others with a gloomy countenance.

He was saved from having to explain his way out of that one, because Hermione had completely forgotten her question within about three seconds, and had decided to move on with the game.

"Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Dare!" he said immediately, not wanting to give her the opportunity to ask him anything serious or embarrassing. He threw a peanut casually into the air and caught it in his open mouth as he waited for her to formulate a dare for him.

Gosh, what a night. Truth or dare had been preceded by a short-lived game of Strip Poker that had lost him his shirt before Hermione had decided to change games. They had been getting well and truly hammered for about two hours, and were verging on the brink of silliness. On the brink; who was he kidding? They had plummeted over _that_ precipice at least an hour ago.

Hermione lay sprawled out on the bed with her head hanging over so she could look at Draco on the floor, almost motionless except for the occasional lifting of her hand to sip from one of the bottles they'd ordered up from Tom the bartender. Draco was worried she had forgotten about his dare, and was about to remind her – not wanting to be done out of an opportunity to embarrass himself, of course – when she lazily said, "Go out onto the balcony."

Obediently, he climbed to his feet and stumbled over to the door. Upright, he realised that he was far drunker than he'd realised.

"Now what?" he asked, unlatching the doors and giving them a yank. He stepped outside, and the sound of the traffic – the whistles of Floo powder and broomsticks, seeing as their balcony overlooked Diagon Alley rather than the streets of Muggle London – deafened him to an extent that he had to ask her to repeat the words that were lost on the wind.

"I said, jump." She let out an uncharacteristic giggle, and he realised that she was joking. Kidding around with him, _finally._ He bounded back into the room – onto the bed, to be exact – and started tickling the life out of her.

"You want me to jump?" he asked, grinning and having to raise his voice over the sound of her drunken laughter. "You really want that?"

"Yes!" she shrieked, and his torture increased. He had feather-light fingers, and was a _monster_ when he tickled. So Pansy Parkinson had said, anyway. She had hated it, which, of course, provoked him to do it far more often.

Hermione didn't relent, and neither did he. Eventually, he climbed on top of her and sat on her to add an extra threat to his side.

"Don't you think you'd miss me?" he asked, slurring his words because he was too far gone to realise what he was doing.

She snorted. "Hardly." Seeing his fingers flex, ready to pounce again, she conceded. "Okay, okay! _Don't_ jump!"

He didn't get off her, but instead stated, "You need to give me a new dare, then."

She shifted a little. At first, he was worried he was squishing her – though, he was kneeling so as not to unload all of his weight onto her – but then he realised that she was just trying to get at the bottle that sat on the bedside table. Once her fingers had grasped it, she took a long swig, and smiled up at him. He was taken off guard by it, once again.

It was probably that astonishment, mixed with the copious amounts of alcohol in his system, that prompted him, when she whispered, "I dare you to... kiss me," to do just that.

It was nothing like he'd imagined. Not that he'd imagined kissing Hermione Granger. Gosh. Of course not. Why would he do something like that?

He could taste the whiskey on her lips as they anxiously battled with his. He was pretty sure she'd be able to taste it on his as well, and just hoped that she didn't get even more intoxicated from it. If she got any drunker, she'd probably explode or something.

He found that his tongue was probing at her lips with a certain degree of shock. How had that gotten there? Even more surprising, she let it.

Everything moved in a blurry, stumble-y sort of slow motion, except for their mouths, moving in sync as he knelt over her and she reached up to meet him.

He didn't know where in that exchange he had managed to fall asleep, but he hoped that he'd at least crawled off her before being rendered comatose. All he knew was that he woke up lying on Hermione's bed, with Hermione beside him, and his arm draped over her chest. To his credit, one of her hands was resting on his – bare – chest as well. It wasn't like he was just randomly feeling her up.

Then it sunk in. The hangover, the night before... the kiss. He'd actually done that? Climbed on top of her? Oh, Merlin. He was an _idiot._ Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Beside him, Hermione shot up. She almost hit the ceiling, that's how fast she leapt to her feet.

"Oh my God," she breathed quietly, sounding rather astonished and just a little bit disgusted. Through lidded eyes – he was pretending to be asleep; best put off the confrontation for as long as possible – he watched her look down with bated breath. Seeing that she was fully clothed, she let out a relieved breath, and then rounded on the bed.

"Get up!" she bellowed, smacking him rather hard on the arm. "Come on, Malfoy. Up and at 'em, you lazy, stupid, half-assed _sod!_"

Well, now, he _had_ to defend himself after that one, didn't he? _Nobody_ got away with calling him half-assed.

"Hey! If you'll remember correctly, you _asked_ me to!"

"I was drunk!" she yelled back. "You took _advantage_ of me! My _God_!"

"_I was drunk too! You_ took advantage of _me!_"

"You're the guy! What was I supposed to do? You were sitting on me!"

"How about _not_ letting me stick my tongue in your mouth?"

She gasped. Oops. Apparently, they hadn't been going to mention that bit.

"I wish you _had_ jumped!" she yelled at him.

"Maybe I will!"

"Maybe you should!"

"Fine!"

"_Fine!_"

He stormed back to his own room, unfortunately leaving his shirt in with her. He didn't care, though. He did his best sulking when he was at least half naked. He bounced onto the bed with his arms crossed. Who was she to get all high and mighty as if she hadn't wanted to as well? Seriously, they'd been drunk. Not in their right minds. There was no shame in admitting it! If _he_ could, then _she_ should be able to!

That lasted for about ten minutes. Then, there was a knock on the door. He came over curiously, and opened the door a crack to reveal an incensed Hermione.

"We were drunk, we didn't know what we were doing, we'll never talk about it again. Agreed?"

"Agreed," he said quickly, not wanting to spoil whatever good mood she was in. "Erm..." He opened the door a little more. "Would you like to come in?"

She sat cross legged on his bed. He joined her, but chose the very opposite end in case the remnants of alcohol in his system decided to go all freaky on him again.

"So, you think you can find your way around now?" she asked casually.

"Around... where?" He didn't like the way this seemed to be going. He had an inkling as to her meaning, but wanted it clarified before he freaked out.

"Diagon Alley, of course. See, you're here now. You can get a job and earn enough to buy a new wand, and then you're right. Right?"

He was horrified at the thought. Not at working, so much... He didn't actually mind the idea of doing stuff, and being _paid_ for it. It was... being deserted in the middle of a rather large community of people who weren't overly fond of him. Being separated from Hermione just as they'd started to actually become friends. See, before the Incident That Shall Not Be Named, they were getting along splendidly. They laughed, they joked, they had a bloody good time, if he said so himself. He didn't want to just wave her off as she crawled back to the hermit-y little life she'd previously inhabited.

So his mind quickly started thinking. What excuse could he come up with to make her stick around? 'I'm pregnant' wouldn't have quite the effect it usually would, seeing as they hadn't exactly done anything and he didn't have a uterus.

And then it hit him. It was actually almost true, which was certainly a selling point. He didn't_ like_ lying. People just made it necessary for him to do so.

"Hermione, you can't leave me here."

"Why not?" she asked, as if leaving people was the only logical thing she knew how to do.

"Because... have you any idea how _hated_ I am? You saw the Death Eater at the airport. Everyone _loves_ you, but they all know me as the bloke who let evil into Hogwarts in sixth year, became a Death Eater and all that. They all despise me, both sides. When I'm with you, I've got at least some _semblance_ of street cred. They don't kill me, because of you. But if I was alone? I'd be dead before you stepped out of the door."

"So I'm supposed to hang around with you for... for God knows how long... to save your life?"

He pleaded with her, "You're the most compassionate person I know. Would you really send me to my doom?"

"Melodramatic, much?" she muttered, but a devious smile came onto her face and she admitted, "It _would_ be something nice to rub in Ronald's face, wouldn't it?"

He nodded enthusiastically. He had been going to use that one himself, but of course, being smarter than him and all, she'd thought of it first. "He'd _hate_ it. Pansy, too."

She nodded. "Okay. I can't believe I'm saying this, but okay. But I swear, Malfoy- Draco, I mean. You're going to have to find a job and _earn_ your keep."

"Agreed," he said immediately. They could work out those horrible _trivial_ details later.

"We'll find a flat tomorrow," she decided. As she walked to the door, Draco distinctly heard a, "_What_ did I just agree to?" but before she could change her mind, he hurried her out and called, "Okay, bye bye, talk later!" after her.

Once the door was closed, chained and locked – just for good measure – he bounced back onto his bed, rather satisfied with himself. He officially had a new place of residence. But in the meantime? It was time to call in some old bets.


	12. Apartment Hunting

_Chapter 12_

_Apartment Hunting_

"Too small," decided Hermione in the lift on the way down from the fifth perfectly suitable flat they had seen.

"It was fine, Hermione!"

"It had _one_ bedroom, and if you think you're getting into my bed, you are _sadly_ mistaken."

Draco rolled his eyes. He would have never predicted this meeting: the two of them, arguing about the size of the apartment. Actually, it was his position in the argument that had him worried.

"I'll have the couch. Or a trundle bed."

She shrugged. "I don't like that it has a lift. I need a bit of exercise every day."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. This was incredible.

"_How _have you found apartments in the past?" he wanted to know. "Because at the rate we're going, we'll be living in a cardboard box on the side of the street. Really, Hermione. We've seen about a million perfectly decent apartments and you've found something wrong with every single one of them."

"Perfectly _crappy_ apartments, you mean," she corrected sulkily.

"What's wrong with you?" he demanded, putting his hand on her shoulder to force her to look at him. She sent a withering glance at his hand, and he instantly snatched it back. It was the first degree of contact they had had since that fateful kiss. He didn't really see why they were avoiding contact – not that they had much of it in the first place. It wasn't like they were going to, upon impact, suddenly lose control of their feelings and instigate a repeat offence. _He_ wasn't, at least. In fact, he'd almost forgotten about it. Wiped from his memory, practically. He was _over_ it. Totally.

He wasn't over it. It had popped up again when he'd tried to fall asleep. It had played on the edge of his dreams until he'd gotten sick of it and forced himself to wake up. He turned a corner, and it would pop up. He couldn't stop thinking about it... about what a strange occurrence it had been, of course. Not thinking about it in a longing, pining sort of way. No sirree. Not him.

"What's wrong with you?" he repeated, forcing the image out of his head and turning back to Hermione – without touching her, this time. "Why are you, the girl who survived Weasley's shit hole of an apartment, being so picky?"

"Language," she reprimanded him, but it came without feeling. She was limp. Something was wrong with her; she hadn't smiled all day. Of course, she breezed along like normal. She spoke in the same tone of voice, she walked the same. But she was different.

It terrified him that he could tell, now.

The doors of the elevator began to slide open. Hermione stepped forward to move through them, but Draco hit a button and they slid closed again. He stood in front of the doors with his arms crossed in case she was entertaining thoughts of forcing them open, and waited.

"It's just..." The usually articulate Hermione Granger tried to voice her thoughts, and failed miserably.

_Wow,_ thought Draco. _There's a first._

"Spit it out, Granger," he teased.

"Sock it, Malfoy," she retorted, and then took a breath. "It's just... weird... you know? Finding a flat... with _you._ You're a _boy_."

"Did that really need clarification?" he asked indignantly.

She shot him a look that quite clearly said 'shut up'. He followed its instructions and waited for the rest of her reasoning. She disliked all of the apartments because she was seeing them with him? A boy? Yes, that made absolute sense.

But the rest didn't come. She simply pressed the button, crossed her arms and waited for him to move aside so she could step through the doors as she had originally intended. He relented and let her, of course, but that didn't stop him from following after her just as confused as he had been before her measly excuse for an explanation.

"This is it," she said, the moment she stepped into the next apartment. "This is the one."

Looking around, Draco didn't see what the attraction was. Sure, it was a nice flat, but it in no way differed from the ones before it. It was simple and bare, and he was fairly sure that the fire exit wasn't very safe. It was a decent size, he had to admit, and it had two bathrooms – which was a necessity, in Hermione's opinion - but only one shower, which was a necessity in his. He thought that perhaps, he could kind of see himself in it... once it was appropriately furnished, of course.

"I like it," he observed, as Hermione stepped around the room with a joyous look on her face.

"It feels like home," she noted, and he thought, satisfied, that he could be happy with that.

"My _God_!" he exclaimed, four and a half days later. "How much stuff do you _have?"_

"A good deal less than _you_ used to, I'll warrant," she grumbled, heaving a suitcase up the stairs. "And I'll thank you not to comment on my belongings! Just remember, Mister Malfoy, that _you're_ only coming along because I'm a nice person and am, out of the goodness of my heart, providing you with a trundle bed!"

He continued to lug her books up the steps, muttering under his breath, "Okay, okay. Jeez, if I'd known you'd use it as a bargaining point every three seconds, perhaps I'd have been better off on the street!"

Luckily for him, she chose not to comment, if she'd heard at all. He had to admit, it would be easy for his words to be lost amidst the expletives and the frustrated sighs that he kept emitting.

It only took one car trip to get all of their things to the lobby of the building, but it took at least seven Draco-trips to get all of her books up the stairs. The clothes were easy; one trip's worth. Weren't girls supposed to be clothes whores? Clothes, at least, were light. Easy to carry. _Books_, on the other hand, were bloody insufferable to cart around. They were going to be the death of him. In fact, it would be a good deal more beneficial for _everyone's_ wellbeing if a fire _accidentally_ made its way into Hermione's bookshelves, _accidentally_ consuming the majority of the books – or at least, the heaviest ones.

'Course, he knew that he would never do such a thing, though he would dream lustfully about it for weeks on end. Burning those books, however satisfying he'd find it at the time, would be an instant death wish. He would be prostrate on the ground before the fumes had started to penetrate his brain. He had a feeling Hermione would be the cruel type, when it came to her books. Long and painful. It was a mantra he had never fancied.

"Be careful," she snapped at him. "If you damage my books..." She didn't even need to complete the threat, or even lead off with a suggestive warning. Trailing off the way she did... Draco didn't need her words. He had a good imagination, and could estimate fairly accurate what she'd do to him.

Still, he couldn't resist asking, just to see how creative she was feeling today.

"Oh yeah? What'll you do to me, O Mighty Fearsome One?"

"Dangle you off the fire escape until you cough up the money you've been stashing in your left sock to replace them."

Ouch. She'd got him there.

"How did you-" he began to ask indignantly, reaching down to feel the lump of money, just for security. He didn't need to finish his question, though, because he realised that she had her methods, and she wouldn't tell him how she'd known anyway.

Mind you, after that, he was a little more careful with the weighty books that he was forced to lug up and down those stupid stairs. _Why_ she was so opposed to elevators – dangling death boxes, as she liked to refer to them – he would never know, but he was bloody pissed off that she couldn't swallow her pride and let him get fat. Exercise was overrated, especially when you had to endure seven levels of it, at least twice a day.

"Why did you choose a flat on the seventh storey?" he moaned for the fifth time, collapsing at the door with a grunt as she balanced the box between her hip and the wall so she could remove the key from her pocket. The first time, he had offered to get it for her – knowing full well that it was in her back pocket, conveniently located right on her arse – but two and a half slaps later and he had stopped offering. So, rather than be _helpful_ for a change, he chose to simply fall on the floor.

Hermione was having a little trouble with the door, it seemed. She kicked it once, down at the base underneath the lock, and then rattled frantically on the handle. It didn't budge.

Draco wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on top of them and waited for her to ask for his help. He estimated it would take at least ten minutes of obstinate attempts before she gave in and declared her incompetence. Long enough to take a nap, perhaps?

No, watching her struggle was far more entertaining.

"Hermione," he ventured to say after about seven minutes. He had decided to take pity on her, and remind her that, "You have a wand, dear."

She scowled at him – how's that for gratitude? – and whipped out her wand, jabbing it viciously at the lock and forcing her way through it. She didn't even bother to hold it open for him, even though she was carrying a few measly shoe bags and he was hauling a ten million billion trillion tonne box of books.

"Lovely girl," he muttered as he trudged past her, feeling like his arms had come out of their sockets. "Such a charmer."

She heard him. He could tell, because her nostrils flared once, a pink tinge crept up her neck, and her face burst into an almighty scowl that glared at him from the door as he dragged her books to the room that would be hers.

But she didn't say a word, surprisingly enough. He had never known her not to comment when she overheard him insulting her – and often when she _didn't_ hear, as well. It was that reason alone – and also the fact that the tinge hadn't faded from her face, and was making her look rather sickly – that caused him to jump back to the door and hold his hand up against her forehead.

He had meant it as a joke, a rather cruel statement on her out-of-character behaviour. He was surprised to feel that the skin beneath his hand was actually boiling. He half-expected it to sizzle against his cold hand.

"Whoa, you're _ill_," he announced to her.

"Nonsense," she said, scraping her hand across her forehead and rolling up her sleeves as she headed for the door. "Come on, I think we've got one last trip ahead of us, and then we're done."

He shook his head, and put his hands on her shoulders. He pushed her down until she was seated on the ground – the lack of furniture necessitated such a seat – and then backed towards the door with a warning look on his face.

"You're to wait here," he said sternly. "I'll bring everything up, and then we'll see what can be done about you."

"I'm fine," she insisted, struggling to her feet. Her difficulty wasn't due to her illness, but rather the hand he put on her head to keep her down with. "Get _off_ me!"

He folded his arms. "Stay here."

"Or _what_?" she threatened crossly, crossing her own arms and glaring at the bare wooden floors.

He couldn't think of a reply, so he quickly ducked out of the room and shut it firmly behind him. To his surprise, he didn't complain quite as much in his head this time around, knowing that Hermione was upstairs waiting for him angrily. There was something about making her angry that was irresistible, and not in a kindergartener, annoy-them-if-you-like-them sort of way. He liked the way her wit grew sharp and pointy as the needle she'd been the first to Transfigure that time in Hogwarts. He liked the way her hair bristled and her eyes flamed and she spat insults at him like she was a submachine gun. All in all, he liked it, and it would never stop being fun.

"Hermione, darling, I'm _home!_" he sang, pushing the door open with an exuberant pop from his hip.

Hermione was sprawled out on the floor, head still propped up against the wall and leaving her neck at a _very_ uncomfortable-looking angle. Her face was red, and she looked like she was hardly breathing at all.

He dropped the luggage in his arms and ran to her with a speed he hadn't known he possessed.

"Hermione," he urged, shaking her arm. She didn't move. He transferred all of her upper body weight onto his lap, and shook her properly, trying to jolt her into awakeness. "Bloody hell, Hermione, wake the frig up!"

Well, he didn't really have much of a choice, did he? He scooped her into his arms and backed out the door again. Noticing how light and fragile she felt, and trying not to jostle her too much, he jogged down the stairs of the apartment building. He had no idea in hell where St Mungo's was, having only heard about it. The Malfoys had always employed a private doctor on the few times on of them was sick. He was unaccustomed to the horrors of... public health care. Merlin. Even thinking about it made him shudder; all those diseases rushing around inside that building... No wonder most of them bloody well up and _died._

He wasn't too sure if the hospital was the best place to take Hermione, in her weak and injured state. He didn't _like_ her, overly, but he didn't want her _dead_, either.

And then he saw it, in amongst the vibrant colours of Diagon Alley. A colourful window, packed with rude sentiments and various exciting looking toys. The sign above the door, in scrawling, colourful writing, read 'Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes'.

Oh, jeez. Just when he thought he'd put those blasted Weasleys behind him once and for all. They followed him everywhere. He had, admittedly, heard a tidbit or two of gossip about the remaining Weasley twin opening shop in Diagon Alley. Still, he'd never expected to have to knock on his door and beg for his help.

"Draco Malfoy, asking for _my_ help?" demanded George, once he opened the door and had finished with his begging thing.

"In the flesh," he said briskly. "And before you turn me down..." He stepped aside to reveal Hermione, slumped unconsciously against the wall.

"Hermione!" George exclaimed, elbowing Draco out of the way and carrying Hermione inside. He deposited her on a couch which farted upon impact, and had to kick away a pile of vicious looking boomerangs so he could sit beside her. "Hermione, wake up."

"Tried that," Draco sang boredly, suddenly not as freaked out now that he was accompanied by another – even a Weasley – in his attempt to bring Hermione back to blessed, annoying consciousness.

"We've got to get her to Mungo's," instructed Weasley with a bossiness Draco hadn't expected. "What happened?"

Draco shrugged. "I left her for a moment to get the rest of the stuff, and I came back, and she was lying on the floor."

He could have sworn he saw the redhead's ears prick up. "Stuff? What stuff?"

With a smug smile, Draco informed him, "Hermione and I are moving in together. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

He waited for the shock to seep in. It took a few seconds – he'd always known those Weasleys to be incredibly thick. And red-faced, when they were shocked. His eyebrow twitched, his jaw clenched, and a pink tinge started creeping up to his ears. That was more like it.

"You and... Hermione?" he asked, just to clarify.

"I'm hurt that you're so disbelieving."

George Weasley looked more than a little bewildered, walking along with Hermione cradled in his arms. Draco observed the picture, and ignored the part with Weasley in it. It felt _wrong_ that this annoying blood traitor was holding Hermione like that, his arm brushing against her breast as he jostled her accidentally each step, the way his other arm was _just_ underneath her behind... It felt _wrong,_ as well as utterly unfair. But, not simply for the pleasure of getting to feel Hermione up. It still felt strange, like he was giving her over to someone else.

He found that he really would rather keep her for himself.

They crossed over to Muggle London before Draco realised what was happening. The change was too much of a contrast to go without notice, but he was paying so much attention to Hermione's limp form that it was more of an afterthought out of the corner of his eye.

An empty department store that looked like it clothed all of those Muggle bums at Hogwarts he had so enjoyed making fun of. How quaint.

"What are you doing?" Draco demanded, his alarm increasing by a few degrees when George started yelling at the dummy. He hadn't seemed at all stressed on the way over, despite his brother's childhood friend being unconscious in his arms. Perhaps he had blown a brain cell or ten on the way, and he was only now displaying the signs of his madness.

To his surprise, George yanked him through a _window_, of all things, into a busy, bustling lobby of illness. Disgusting.

"We've got a seriously ill girl over here!" Draco bellowed at the top of his lungs, figuring that a little more madness in this place would go unnoticed and deciding to up the ante a little.

George hushed him and raced over to a counter, where an expressionless witch advised people in a monotone.

"Unconscious, just...keeled right over."

The witch seemed thoroughly unconcerned as she said, "Find Healer King. He'll sort 'er out."

It was a good thing the Weasley boy had a sense of direction in this place. Draco would have been lost straight away. But he wove and he elbowed and he burst into a room – Draco in tow, of course – and announced, "I've been sent to find you. Hermione's collapsed."

"Let's take a look, then, shall we?" asked the healer, pushing a pair of glasses up onto his nose and walking over to inspect Hermione. Letting out an astonished gasp, he exclaimed, "Why, it's Miss Granger!"

"Yeah, yeah, saved the world, bla bla. Can you help?" Draco wasn't too keen on the chitchat. The reunion could wait until Hermione was awake again.

The man's eyebrows furrowed. "Saved the world? Sorry, I've been rather out of the loop. I've been working in a Muggle hospital in America with Hermione for some time now... what on earth is she doing here?"

"She just collapsed," Draco informed him shortly. "Just... sprawled out and wouldn't wake up."

The healer sighed, and pointed his wand at her chest. "_Enervate_," he muttered, and Draco and George both slapped their heads in realisation of their idiocy. Of course, they'd both forgotten – Draco with a reasonable excuse, not possessing a wand and all – to try a few simple spells. _Idiots._

Draco blamed Weasley more, though. 'Course. His fault.

"Where am I?" Hermione demanded, sitting upright and staring around the room. The first thing her eyes locked onto was Draco. She frowned, as if she'd forgotten that the two of them were actually _moving in together._ Draco preferred to put it like that, because it made him sound like he'd tamed the wild beast into a romantic relationship, which pampered his poor, neglected ego.

Ignoring Draco – the _scandal!_ – her eyes continued on their path around the room. They settled on the healer, and she let out a short burst of incredulous laughter.

"Doctor King! What are you doing here?"

"Healer now, actually. Goodness, I never had an inkling that you were one of us!"

"The name didn't tip you off?" inquired Draco sarcastically. Why did this man insist on pissing him off? Couldn't he just go... evaporate or something, and leave Draco to tend Hermione on her sickbed? Not that he was any good at treating sick people. He had a vague idea of making Weasley do the bad jobs and he would step in when it came to the thanks-giving.

The healer ignored Draco's pointed comment, and said to Hermione, "Well, looks like you're fine now. You're free to go, Miss... Granger." He caught her hand to help her off the table, and then raised it to his lips. Their eye contact was excruciating. Draco wanted to step in and wipe that bewildered smile from Hermione's face, but he couldn't do anything but stand silently until they were finished.

Five minutes later, having ditched – politely, in Hermione's case – Weasley, they strolled back towards the apartment building.

"Idiot," she snapped. "You had to bring me to _Mungo's_, for that?"

So much for her thanking him.


	13. Sickbeds

_Chapter 13_

_Sickbeds_

A pair of piercing chocolate eyes fixed upon his grey ones. They didn't budge their focus for a disturbingly long period of time, and when they did, it was only to flick a dangerous glare at the clock before whipping back onto his again.

"Stop looking at me like that," he finally implored. "It's giving me the heebie-jeebies."

"Good."

Hermione continued to glare at him, fists clenching on the edge of the sheets that covered her sickbed. Draco, on the other hand, flipped nonchalantly through a magazine, occasionally looking up to make sure she was still breathing.

Yep? Good.

Her intent was made all the clearer by the poison that saturated her voice as she commanded in a flat voice, "Get the bloody hell out of my room."

"No."

When she didn't protest again, he smiled easily. "Glad we've got that settled. See how nice it is when you agree with me?"

"Die in a hole, Malfoy."

"No."

She was a nasty piece of work when she was being held against her will, wasn't she?

"Now now, dear one. Why are you being so troublesome?"

Calling her pet names all afternoon probably wasn't doing him any favours, but Draco was entitled to a little bit of entertainment. He had, after all, unpacked the entirety of Hermione's worldly belongings, assembled a collection of furniture, and gotten three splinters before Hermione had reminded him that _she_ could have done it all, with her wand, from the comfort of the bed he'd constructed for her.

'Son of a bitch,' had been a fairly accurate summary of his thoughts at that moment.

"Let me up," she repeated, for the fifth time in the last seventeen minutes. Yes, he had been keeping count. Nothing better to do. It wasn't like he could go out and earn some 'bread' for the family when he had to stay and look after Hermione.

Yes, that's right. He, Draco Malfoy, had accepted the position of prime caretaker in Hermione's life until he himself was convinced that her little loss of consciousness had been a one off thing, due to the stress of watching _him_ carry all of those boxes up those horrendous stairs. Draco would have been quite within his rights to faint like a little girl himself, but that would have been unmanly of him.

Anyway, to put it simply, Draco had taken it upon himself to inflict complete and utter bed rest on his charge, feeling her simply too taxed from her illness to do much of anything. That would have been all well and good with her, if he hadn't insisted on overseeing each and every moment of that time, from the trusty armchair he'd shoved into her room and adorned with pillow, blanket, and potato chips.

"What do you intend to do when I have to shower?" she asked mildly, evidently choosing civility for the time being.

A moment later, she looked as if she wished she hadn't asked.

"Don't answer that," she muttered, but it was already too late.

"I'll have to come, of course," he responded cheerfully. "Wouldn't want you to get all faint and slip on the soap, would we?"

"So you'll just climb on in with me?"

"Yes, of course. Clothes are optional; you can choose."

"Go to hell, Malfoy."

He began on a long-winded spiel about how he probably was, anyway. Eventually, she forgot about being angry with him and instead focused on taking bets with herself how long he could go on talking for, and being amazed when he beat her on every single one. Nobody could keep up a meaningless monologue like Draco could. He'd had enough practice, in the Slytherin common room when people had actually listened to him.

"So, anyway, I'm kind of looking forward to running into Satan and everything… I mean, I'm pretty sure he'll bitch slap me or something… or does Satan slap you on the back and congratulate you when you've been a bad boy? Well, either way… hey, don't take that 'bad boy' bit the wrong way. I didn't mean it dirtily, although… Actually, I'm pretty sure you don't want to know about that part of my life, so I'll keep it to myself. Not that I think about it, much, though, because that's such a _dude_ thing to do, and I'm not a dude, I'm amazing, and-"

"Whoa."

Hermione had sat up in bed and curled her knees up to her chin. She looked rather impressed, while at the same time a little annoyed that he'd just wasted twenty three minutes babbling about nothing in particular.

He did a double take, and looked at the clock again. Twenty three? Seriously?

Well, it was disappointing, not even on the same _continent_ as his record, but still… He was out of practice.

"You have a problem, Malfoy," Hermione informed him.

"And don't I know it?" he muttered to himself, trying to count in his head how many times he'd been told so before. It was more than he could count on his fingers, at least. Even when he recruited his toes to help count as well, he still didn't have enough small body parts to count them on.

No, he was twenty years old. It wouldn't do for him to utilize the same counting strategy as he had when he was seven. In fact, he didn't need to count at all. What he had to do was look after his patient, and then figure out how to go about getting a _job_ of some sort.

He had to be grown up about this whole… grown up thing. His immaturity? Hereby vanished.

Standing up and feeling rather empowered by his newest resolution, Draco asked, "How about some lunch? What would you like?"

"What have we _got_?" countered Hermione, a strange sort of twinkle in her light that made Draco feel exceptionally unintelligent.

Well, how the bloody hell was he supposed to know? Was he standing in front of the kitchen? Hardly.

As tempted as he was to let rip with a lovely retort, he remembered. 'Grown up'. Okay. He could do this.

Carefully, he said, "I could go… check?"

"Very _good!_" exclaimed Hermione, like she was talking to a two year old.

With a slight scowl on his face – only slight, because _grown ups_ don't throw tantrums – he walked away from Hermione's bed and into the little kitchen. The 'refrigerator', as Hermione called it, was humming peacefully to itself. Draco swallowed. This was going to be tough.

Wincing in anticipation, he stretched out a hand slowly.

Well, he was only human. Grown up or not, he was still allowed to be a little bit afraid of the _giant evil ice box that had almost cost him a hand!_

Yep, that was one evil refrigerator.

His hand settled into the groove at the top of the door.

Well. That wasn't so bad.

He slowly gave a tug, and with a whirring squelching noise, the door sprang open.

"Bingo!" Draco exclaimed, loading up his arms with raw food from the shelves. He and the refrigerator were now on equal terms. They were friends, now that it had opened nicely for him. The _last_ time, it had caught his toe and squished his arm in between the wall and the door. _Not nice._

But he and old Fridgey here were on equable terms now. Life was good.

Triumphantly, he offloaded the food he'd been carrying onto the comforter of Hermione's bed.

"Impressed?" he asked, waiting for applause.

Hmm. Well. It seemed that _some_ people weren't quite as impressed by his talent as they _should_ have been.

Hermione held up a block of blue cheese between finger and thumb. "What's this?"

"Cheese," he said, a frown appearing on his face. "Isn't that the type you like?" It had _looked_ like the mouldy hunk of cheese that had been in her refrigerator back in New York. Perhaps he'd gotten the wrong one accidentally, when he'd pinched the money from Hermione's wallet and gone grocery shopping. A frightening experience, that one.

Hermione smiled gently. Draco tilted his head, waiting.

"Draco…" she said slowly. "Perhaps I should do the grocery shopping from now on."

'_Hallelujah!_' he cried in his head, but out loud asked indignantly, "Why? What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," she said hurriedly, shaking her head. Well, charming. But Draco could quiz her later. For now, he was more preoccupied with the fact that she was kicking back the covers and sitting up.

"Stay down!" He tried to dart close enough to her to push her back onto the bed, but she slipped back him and was waiting by the doorway before he'd even realised she'd made a run for it.

"I told you, I feel fine," she assured him, opening the door a little wider. "And Doc… Healer King said I was fine at Mungo's. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get dressed, and then we can try to assemble something edible."

"Actually, I _do_ mind," he started to protest, but Hermione had obviously gotten fed up with asking because she whipped out her wand and sent him flying back onto the uncomfortable couch. The door slammed behind him, and he heard an indignant mutter that had no audible words.

She emerged a few minutes later, wearing Muggle clothes. He had to admit, she looked perfectly healthy. Especially in that low cut sweater. Wowza.

She rolled up her sleeves and headed over to the pile of food that he'd replaced on the kitchen counter. Surveying it all with an amused smile on her face, she remarked, "How did you choose what to buy, by the way?"

He shrugged. "Fun things! Pretty colours! _Toys!_"

"Oh, God help me," he heard Hermione mutter to herself.

_He_ couldn't help that he was unused to the marketing ploys that Muggles commonly used to sell their products. _He_ couldn't help that he, as a recently freed young male, was susceptible to the draws of flashy imagery and free toys. _He _couldn't help that he had been entirely unprepared for the perils of grocery shopping in an unfamiliar world – thanks, Hermione. It was _not his fault!_

But Hermione didn't seem too deterred by his choice in food items. She simply started darting around to cupboards as if she knew _exactly_ where Draco had put all the cooking utensils he'd been commissioned to purchase.

Actually, that had been something on Draco's mind. He had had to buy a _lot_ of stuff, from a carefully produced list, courtesy of Hermione, so he couldn't stuff that up. But how, if she had been reduced to living in Weasley's craphole of an apartment, could she afford all this new stuff?

He asked, as she whisked some ingredients in a bowl. Actually, the sight of Hermione _cooking_ was rather intriguing and… well, _cute._ She was quite unaware of the fact, but the tip of her tongue was caught between her teeth, poking out between her lips as she drew her eyebrows together. The whole thing combined to create the image of perfect concentration, and it was rather… appealing.

Of course, it was just the smell of cooking tomatoes that was going to his head. Of course.

But anyway, he asked, and Hermione removed her tongue and straightened up and looked at him properly, brandishing a sauce-y wooden spoon.

"I've got a trust fund, of sorts, in Gringotts. You know. Reward from the Ministry of Magic, stuff like that. My parents invested a bit, and I've… collected." She looked uncomfortable, and he kind of wished he hadn't asked.

But at least now he knew she wasn't robbing the mob to pay for a toaster, or something.

"So, what's cookin'?" he asked hastily to change the subject. "Smells… good."

She shrugged. "I don't have a name for it, exactly. It's just… stuff. I'm making do." She smiled briefly at him, to let him know that she wasn't _really_ that disappointed with his lack of shopping skills. Or maybe she was, and she was trying to make him feel better about his failure. That possibility made him sad.

But then he had a thought. "Can _I_ think of a name for it?"

She sighed, as if the idea pained her. "Go ahead."

He surveyed the sticky, red contents of the pot, and suggested carefully, "Erm… mush?"

"Works for me."

They sat on Draco's future bed-couch to eat. It was a solemn affair, until Draco had a mouthful.

"Impressive!" he exclaimed, spooning more into his mouth. "I don't know what's _in_ it, but it's _good._ How'd you learn to cook?"

"From _not_ having a personal chef?" she said, as if it were obvious.

He shrugged. Here it was again, him being blamed for something _out of his control!_ He wasn't to be held accountable for the scores of chefs who fancied serving his every culinary need for the first nineteen and three quarter years of his life. Besides, cooking was for _girls._

His spoon pointed at the television. "What's on?"

Hermione used her wand and waved the remote out of his reach. He pulled a stunning pout, and added a petulant, "What was that for?"

"I'm not letting you acquire bad habits," she informed him, reaching for the ladle in the large bowl before them. "Television is an addictive practice that should only be undertaken by professionals."

Was that a hint of a smile flickering across her lips? Was that a selected morsel of Hermione's previously non-existent sense of humour?

_Oh my goodness,_ he thought. _A momentous occasion. There ought to be fireworks and champagne._

Speaking of which... the hangover from their little... private party... had lasted him for days. He'd usually been one of the ones who could hold their liquor in copious quantities, but this was one of those times when alcohol had combined with adrenalin with a hefty shot of confused attraction and a little nudity, to culminate in an almighty mother of a migraine that had lasted him fairly into the next week.

Hermione hadn't been much better.

"Hermione!" he complained, to distract himself from the rather vivid memory of her lips on his and her chest heaving against his bare one and her top riding up a little to reveal creamy stomach and-

Yes, complaining _really_ worked to take his mind off of things.

"Yes?" It took him a moment to shake himself out of it, and realise that Hermione was waiting patiently for his reply.

He stole a glance at her, trying to be furtive. It didn't really work, because she was already watching him. There was an odd expression on her face, one that he'd caught a few times over the last couple of days. Ever since their... kiss. Merlin, the kiss. As much as he hated to admit it, the scene had been played over and over in his head, so many times that it was hovering on the brink of embarrassment. He had imagined it again and again, embellishing a little until he decided that it had been perfect the way it was. Perfect? _Perfect?! _Had he heard himself correctly? Draco Malfoy did _not_ use the word 'perfect', _especially_ not to describe a drunken kiss with his former nemesis.

"-looking at me?"

He blinked.

Twice.

"Sorry, what?"

"Why are you looking at me?" Hermione repeated, frowning at him.

"No reason."

There wasn't really much else for him to do except to concentrate on the mush in his bowl. It was red and gooey and rather unappetising, but that didn't stop him from chowing down. If the first bite hadn't killed him...

"Hey." He felt an elbow in his side, a rather sharp one that he'd felt before. He winced, put down his bowl, and made rather a to-do about turning to face her.

With an exhale of breath, he demanded imploringly, "_Why?_"

Her face was close - too close. He had a surge of flashbacks flying into his head on hyperspeed, like his brain was a projector on acid and almost like he was comparing this moment to the kiss and admiring certain aspects of her face like her too-red lips and her too-long eyelashes and her too-big eyes-

"About the... you know, the kiss?"

"I believe I recall it... vaguely," he was able to choke out.

My _word_, what was she doing, looking at him like that? She looked like she was begging him to take her then and there, except that the expression on her face was really actually her normal one and he was just imagining the 'take me now' part of it. But when she was assured of his attention, her face transformed again. Subtler, this time. She bit her bottom lip - those now-normal-sized teeth sucking the colour out of the flesh - and averted her eyes from his.

He was too intent on her face; he knew that but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. Or, he physically couldn't. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he cared for her in any capacity other than a vague quasi-friend-slash-roommate sort of way. No, sirree. It was just that he was still drunk from all those days ago. Yeah. That was it.

"You were saying?" he prompted, because she was kind of staring at him as well.

"It's... you know... we've forgotten about it, right?"

Erm. Because he'd _really_ been expecting that.

"Uh, yeah, sure," he forced out. "Why wouldn't I of?"

Ooh, that was a good move, Draco! Throw it back on her! Ask her why she's been thinking about it, whether she's been staying up at night going through it like he had!

Yep, he was a genius.

It had been a good kiss. He'd give her that. Oh, boy, would he give it to her...

-No. Dirty. _Bad_ Draco!

Where was he?

Oh yes.

The girl could kiss, even drunk. However, as an attractive, formerly wealthy member of magical society, he had had access to the cream of the crop, the finest females in the country.

Screw that 'however'; Hermione beat them all.

_How,_ though? She'd gotten with Krum, and apparently, Dean Thomas, and Weasley, and that was all. To his knowledge, that is. Unless she was just one of those supremely talented beings like himself...

"You're off with the fairies," Hermione commented, reaching over his knees to grab her glass of water. The contact made him shiver. She noticed. "So... I'll leave you to it. I'm just going to duck out for a moment. I've got something of George's that I've been hanging onto for a while. Go to sleep. It's actually pretty late. So, I guess I'll, uh..."

"Pyjamas?"

She backpedalled from the door. "Ooh, right. Uh, thanks."

He flopped down on the couch and covered his face with a pillow, resisting a rather insistent urge to let out a yell. Life was just so frustrating sometimes.


	14. Secret Rendezvouses

_Chapter 14_

_Secret Rendezvous(es)_

Draco was dying. Literally. The suspense was killing him.

He was lying on the couch, in the dark, waiting for Hermione. She had left in the early evening. It was now approximately three twenty four and seventeen seconds, and she had been gone for an extraordinarily long time.

It wasn't that he _missed_ her or anything. It was more that he was worried that she'd passed out again, or something along those lines. What had she been doing for all this time, anyway? After all, she'd been visiting a _Weasley._ Seriously. Like anyone could put up with one of _them_ for more than a few minutes.

Oh, God. What if...?

Surely Hermione wouldn't decide to take revenge on Weasley the Second-Youngest by getting together with his older brother... would she? _He_ had thought that living with him was fairly decent revenge on the Weasel, but apparently not. It seemed that brother beat nemesis. Pity. He had been enjoying the arrangements.

He tried to readjust. Aside from the various qualities that this couch possessed in comparison to Hermione's old couch, it was terribly uncomfortable on his back. He, who was used to the finest quality king sized mattresses, preferably with a fluffy down quilt and an attractive girl, was reduced to sleeping on a lumpy couch? Yes, well. His emancipation had been humbling. It hadn't been the amazing experience that being humbled was generally thought to be, but at least he didn't call Hermione a Mudblood when they rowed now.

In his newly acquired position with arms above his head and his knees curled in towards the back of the couch, Draco could at least think with a little less pressure on his brain, though sleeping had officially been crossed off with red marker from the list of possible activities. It was quite serene, actually, lying there in the dark with hardly a care in the world except _where was his bloody flatmate?_

Night had become slightly more visible to him as his eyes adjusted. He could make out the crack on the ceiling now, snaking around and developing numerous twisting tributaries that stretched to the corners. With Hermione – forced to be – bedridden over the past few days, the magic of his very own shared apartment had begun to wear off in his solitude. Now, he noticed the crack in the ceiling, and the scuff marks on the wooden floor and the paint that flaked in some places. It was a far cry from his former-former habitation, but he couldn't afford to be picky. Literally. He was skint.

A job would be a good idea, perhaps. Yes, that would motivate Hermione to come home. He felt vaguely obligated to demonstrate his appreciation in some form or another. His first lot of earnings could go towards that. Or some trousers. He _really_ needed trousers.

Now, what was he good at? Wasn't that supposed to be how you got a job, or something? Well, he could... erm... he was witty, as least!

A Muggle job would be good. Then, he could use his magic to his advantage and be better than everyone else. Just the way he liked it.

Perhaps he could be one of those people who stood in front of a brick wall with a microphone and made fun of people in the audience. Seemed like the sort of thing he'd been doing for years, just a tapestry of Salazar Slytherin instead of a brick wall.

Or, maybe, he could do what Hermione did. That fun thing in the hospital where you cut people open and pull out their insides. Sounded interesting. Apparently, it paid decently, though you wouldn't know it, looking at her wardrobe.

The main thing, though, was that he needed a wand. If he worked for, what, five minutes? Yes, that ought to be long enough to accumulate the funds to provide himself with a new wand, and then, he wouldn't have to work at _all._ He could just Summon someone else's money!

No, that would be wrong.

Ooh, or he could be a firefighter! Those idiot Muggles would be messing about with hoses, but he could duck behind a tree, cast a little spell, and be praised as the Almighty Fire Putter Outer. He would be _rich._ And of course, the owner of the house he extinguished would be an attractive and _grateful_ young woman, who would heap him with gratitude and bake him cookies and-

A small burst of light shone in the keyhole, and the door gently swung open, letting in a thin line of line as Hermione squeezed in through the gap. Draco snapped his eyes shut, but then inched them open so he could watch her through the crack in his eyelids. She looked furtive, illuminated in the light of the hallway. Creeping into the room, she paused by his side. He almost gasped, thinking that she had realised that she was being watched. So he closed his eyes properly and tried to regulate his breathing.

And then, suddenly, he felt a burst of warm breath on his cheek. His eyes snapped open of their own accord.

"Oh, sorry," she whispered, starting backwards with a plate in one hand and his glass in the other. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Oh. So she _hadn't_ been able to kiss his cheek or whisper how much she loved him, as he had strangely imagined in the moments between the breath and her whisper. Funny that.

"Where were you?" he asked, trying to sound as if he'd been asleep for hours, and doing rather a shoddy job of it.

"I told you, visiting George. Now, go back to sleep."

She bustled out of the room, dropping his plate in the sink with a clang now that she didn't have to bother with being quiet. He already knew that she had been out so late; no use pretending. Well, she'd soon find out that Draco had _sources_. At least, he intended to find out exactly what the deal was with her and George Weasley.

Once the shower had stopped running and the light in Hermione's room had gone out, Draco managed to drift off into a sort of semi-sleep which seemed to last for about five minutes before it was seven o'clock in the morning and Hermione was sitting on him.

"What are you doing?"

"I need a favour."

Wow. Four words that had never been addressed to him before. _He_ had usually been the one sitting there with his sweetest, most persuasive smile on his face, trying to force someone else to do something they probably wouldn't want to do.

"Yes...?" he said carefully, squinting up at her and wiggling under her weight.

"I would like..." She looked down at him, and he realised that she was wearing _makeup._ Sure, newer, bad-ass-er Hermione always seemed to slick on some mascara or some eyeliner, but now, she was fully made up, and... it was _fancy._

"Where are you going?" he interrupted with a grimace.

"I've got a job interview," she snapped. "Now, as I was saying... are you okay to hold down the fort here for a while? I'm not going to be home for a while."

A while? Oh, not again...

"-And I was also wondering if you could do the grocery shopping today. Don't worry, I've made a list, and left it and some money on the kitchen counter."

She stood up and looked at him pleadingly. He realised that her clothes were different, too. Corporate, even. The whole fancy tiny skirt and frilly top thing that Muggle businesswomen seemed to go about in. There were a set of robes folded over her arm and a little leather handbag that looked as if it would only hold half an hour's worth of Red Vines. Curiouser and curiouser...

"I suppose I could do that," he said slowly, and before the sentence had completely left his mouth, she was rushing out the door in her clacking high heels, waving a thanks and goodbye at him while he was still saying 'suppose'.

He was shell shocked, just for a moment. Nowadays, Hermione rushed in and out like a well-groomed hurricane, as opposed to the bushy-haired, creeping little mouse she had used to be. Usally there was no competition, but it was days like these that he had a little trouble deciding which he preferred. Being awoken by somebody's arse on his stomach was never a pleasant beginning to the day.

However, he could moan and groan to her later all he liked. Today, he had chores to do.

It was all action for a moment, throwing on his clothes and reluctantly swapping his ripped jacket for a worn but less ripped one that he found in the bottom of Hermione's second drawer. Not hers, surely. But then... it couldn't be _Weasley's_; the boy was too lanky to fit this. Who else, then? He hadn't pictured Hermione as the multiple lovers sort of girl, but she _had_ changed...

After mulling over the origin of this jacket for a moment, he pocketed Hermione's key – it wasn't like she would need it, since _she_ had a _wand_ – and the money and shopping list, and headed for the door.

London was a _strange_ place. He had never really spent much time there; the Malfoy family preferred to holiday in the Caribbean and similar extravagant places. _London, _though. All he knew of London was the Ministry of Magic building and Diagon Alley. Oh, and, most recently, the supermarket, though that one had taken a _long_ time to get to.

It was odd to have to pretend to be a Muggle. Of course, he'd been doing it ever since he left his parents – a whole _how many_ weeks ago? – but it had never really hit him that he was alone in a big city, without a wand, and he had no clue what frozen pizza was, let alone _where_ in that great expanse of supermarketness. It hit him now. It was hitting him like a tonne of bricks, in the junk, plus a shovel.

"Excuse me?"

The girl in the green vest turned around. "Mmm?"

"Hang on a second, you're..."

There was a jolt in his brain, and he quickly flashed back to that day when he'd caused a pile up back in America, and that girl, and...

"You're, she's... _you!_ What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me? I _work _here." The girl raised an eyebrow at him, scoffed, and turned on her heel to walk away.

"Hey, your customer service is _crap-ola!_ I could go tell your supervisor or something!" he yelled after her.

All of a sudden, the hustle and bustle of the entire store momentarily paused, and seemingly every person in the vicinity turned to glare at him. The girl turned around slowly, a glare beaming out of her eyes and directly into his eyes.

"What did you just say to me?" she demanded, taking a few steps closer. He could read the name of some obscene metal band on the shirt under her employee's vest.

He didn't back down. He stood up straight, and asked loudly, "Could you tell me where the frozen pizzas are?"

She jabbed one sharp fingernail towards the long line of refrigerators. Wow, friendly. He nodded coolly, scanning her name tag. "Thanks, _Zoe_," he snapped, and stalked away to complete Hermione's list.

The girl disappeared from his life, and from his thoughts, because when he returned to the apartment which wasn't quite home yet, Hermione was still gone. She was gone, but she had returned. There was a note covered with her precise, neat handwriting, stuck to the freezer door.

'Draco,' it read, 'I got the job. We're all going out for lunch plus drinks, so don't wait up. If you need feeding... figure it out. You can read, right?'

Charming. Really. He couldn't imagine a lovelier girl to share a flat with.

And what was that supposed to mean? 'You can read?' _Gosh!_

He decided to stick it to Hermione, and he cooked one of those frozen pizzas, all by himself. To his _immense_ surprise, there wasn't any stirring or tasting or mixing like there had been in every Muggle cooking show he'd ever caught a glimpse of. All he had to do was stick it in the oven. It was _easy._

Until it started burning.

But hey, sometimes ash can give food a more distinct flavour. His burnt hands distracted him from the taste of the pizza, anyway. Seriously, wasn't life _great?_

Optimism did not work for Draco Malfoy.

Hermione got in late that night. Not quite living up to the standards of her last walk of shame, but two in the morning was still a decently late time to be getting in, when you were supposed to be having _lunch._

This time, she didn't 'wake him'.

The next night, too, she got home late, and there was a male voice outside her door. Draco sat bolt upright in the middle of the night when he heard that man laugh, and he strained to listen to the faint conversation they exchanged.

"-tomorrow?"

"Yeah, definitely."

"Bye, Adam."

_Adam?_ Who the _bloody hell_ was Adam?

At least it wasn't George Weasley.

The next day was Hermione's day off. She slept in fifteen minutes than she would normally, and then it was up and out the door again. This time, with a feeling of dread, he called after her, "Will you be back in time for lunch, Hermione?"

Looking back with an expression that was half disgust-at-his-patheticness and half surprised that he cared, she nodded. "I've just got a few errands to run. I'll be back. And you should get up and about. Sitting in the flat all day isn't healthy."

Charming, and yes he _had_ caught that not-so-subtle jab at his unemployment. But that was okay. He could handle that problem just as soon as he dealt with the current one.

His morning was spent anxiously. What was he supposed to do when he was well aware of the fact that Hermione was probably meeting up with this Adam person at that _very moment? _He couldn't think of an activity fitting enough to occupy his time, and so he paced until Hermione rushed back in the door, a phone pressed to her ear. He was standing in the kitchen, hidden by the refrigerator though he could still plainly see the wide smile that played across her lips.

"Yes, I miss you too, Adam. My _God,_ must you be so needy?"

She listened for a moment, and then let out a trilling laugh. "Oh, don't be mean. I'll see you at dinner."

_Dinner?_ _Again?_

This was not on.

But what could he do? He was just the flatmate. What's more, he was the impoverished, entirely-dependant-on-her flatmate. He had no authority, no veto power... he had been pushing his luck, asking about her schedule this morning.

He had already answered his own question, many times, with a variety of combinations of swear words, as he waited for Hermione to return from her dinner.

Was it too much to hope that they were just friends? That Hermione wore a little black dress _every_ time she went out? That he was just a colleague or an old friend or some sort of relative...?

"Shh, don't be so loud!" came the half-drunken giggle at two thirty in the morning. "Draco's in there, you know."

This time, he stood up, and walked over to the door. If he couldn't get all macho flatmate, he could at least get macho male friend, and then plead worry for her safety when she yelled at him later. Yeah, that could work. With a flashlight in his hand, thumb resting on the button, ready to pounce at a moment's notice – it always seemed to work on the cop shows – he approached the door.

The giggling and talking stopped. Oh, God.

He carefully opened the door, but his thumb missed the button on the flashlight so his entrance wasn't quite as spectacular as he had planned. In fact, it was so unspectacular that Hermione and that faceless blonde didn't even pause in their making out to acknowledge it.

His fears had been confirmed. Whoever this _Adam_ person was had now gained another dot point in his biography.

So far:

_Name is Adam_

_DATING HERMIONE!!!_

This was not good. This was _very very bad!_

The fact that he was _blonde_ as well hurt more than anything else. Imagine the audacity, stealing Draco's hair colour! Un_think_able!

The pain he felt over the copycat's coif was magnified by a gazillion when Hermione opened her eyes, jumped away from _Adam_, and they both swung around to face him. The faceless, idiotic copy cat who was sharing saliva with _Draco's roommate?_ None other than her dashing Doctor Adam King.

Things just kept getting worse and worserer.


	15. Draco's Fairy Godfather

_Chapter 15_

_Draco's Fairy Godfather_

"Draco!" Hermione cried, pressing her hand to her bruised lips like they were burning. "What are you doing up?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Well, I think _that's_ rather obvious," she muttered under her breath.

Draco extended his hand to the idiot doctor. "Hi, Draco Malfoy. I was in the other day with Hermione. Isn't inter-colleague dating frowned upon?"

"Abrupt, much?" hissed Hermione.

The idiot doctor gripped his hand and smiled in that idiotic, manly way. "Of course I remember you, Draco. It's nice to see you again."

"And how did you know we work together?" Hermione put in, putting her hands on her hips.

"Well, you know... celebratory lunches that went until three in the morning... I figured. Anyway, you coming in, 'Mione? It's pretty late. We're probably keeping everyone else up."

He thought he saw Hermione mouth, 'Sorry' at the idiot doctor, who held up a casual hand as if to say 'oh, no worries, I will humour the antics of this freak'. Freak? _Not so,_ my friend!

Draco shot all sorts of eye daggers at the idiot doctor until Hermione had decided against kissing him goodnight, and stepped inside the door. Once she was safely inside and away from his slimy little paws, he flashed the idiot doctor a wide smile. "Well, 'night!"

When he turned around triumphantly, he was met with a not-so-happy Hermione, who looked as though she was considering whether to murder him or injure him just enough that he would have to live forever in suffering.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she screeched, reaching that pitch in her voice where her face screwed up and the words were hardly distinguishable from one another, though he could quite easily put the situation into context and guess what she meant. If he had been worried about waking the neighbours before? Jeez, they were all screwed now.

"_Nothing_ is wrong with me," he said haughtily, sauntering back over to his couch. "The noise woke me up and I realised you weren't home so I thought I would go see if it was you."

"I mean ushering me inside," she snapped, lowering the volume but making up for it with an extra ounce of viciousness that had been missing in her last chunk of indecipherable screaming. "As if you're my _mother._ I'm an _adult_, you moron! I can stay up until any time I like!"

Would it be better, he mused, to calm her down now, or have it out and make it up to her in the morning when he was functioning better?

Calm now, he decided quickly when she opened her mouth as if she was going to yell at him again.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he interrupted quickly, just as an expletive started to squeeze through her lips. "I shouldn't have interrupted you; I'd just woken up so I wasn't thinking straight. Truly, I'm sorry. And I'm happy for you and... Adam."

She stared at him, as if trying to gauge how sincere he was being. Since he had his best shit-eating smile on, she believed it. You would think that by now, she would know that he was _always_ lying, but that was okay. He had time enough to teach her.

Sitting on his couch and pulling off a high heel, she started to gab on about how amazing he was or something. Draco sat gingerly beside her, remembering that contact with him was bad in her book at the moment. _Especially_ now that she had a boyfriend she'd known for what, two seconds?

Yes, well, he could look past that, because it was only very, very temporary. It was unacceptable, to him, though he wasn't exactly sure of the logistics of why. All he knew that Hermione's boyfriend made him uneasy, and he wasn't good enough for her, so he would have to go.

And Draco knew exactly how he was going to do it.

"Well, sorry for waking you up." She stood up, stretched, and paused by the doorway to her bedroom. "I do know you mean well, Draco, and thanks." Flashing him a rare smile, she disappeared into the secret sanctum that was her room.

Yes, he meant well. He just hoped she would keep that perspective in the near future.

The next morning, he made a point of waking up before Hermione did. He wasn't prepared to go through the drama of cooking another pizza for his breakfast, so he just sat on the counter with a glass of juice, swinging his feet and waiting for her to get up. When she did trot out, looking far too chipper than she ought, he smiled sweetly at her.

"You know what I just realised, Hermione dearest?"

"That you _don't_ want children, and that's why you've started calling me pet names again?" she supplied helpfully, going over and fiddling with the silver machine that started secreting strong smelling black liquid into a mug she held.

" Close, but no. Actually, I realised that I never fully congratulated you about your new job."

For a split second, she looked flushed and pleased. Then, she just looked suspicious.

"What do you want, Draco?" she asked, folding her arms and taking a step back as if it would enable her to study him better. Considering he was shirtless that particular morning, you would _think_ she'd want to be as close as possible.

He jumped off the counter and moved closer to her. "I was wondering if we could, you know, have dinner or something. Since we _are_ flatmates, which implies a certain level of friendship, and I hear that normal kids do that sort of thing... together."

Looking no less suspicious, she asked sceptically, "Are you asking me out on a _date,_ Draco?"

"What? No!"

Actually, that hadn't occurred to him, though that would have been an equally effective strategy. All he'd wanted was to make sure she wouldn't spend another consecutive night with this _Adam_ fellow, whoever the hell he was.

"Dinner? Just as friends? _Really?_"

"Don't sound so surprised," he tried to scoff. "I _have_ had female friends before, you know."

The pleased look came back into her face, which kind of made him shiver happily. He liked that he could make her smile like that.

"Okay," she said, nodding quickly. "Shall I come back here to pick you up, or do you want to meet there?"

"Meet there," he said quickly, triumphantly, forming a plan within his head as he went along. With an airy hand gesture, he added, "I'm going out, anyway."

Of course, he was half going out just for the sake of it, because he didn't want to spend yet another day alone in the flat while Hermione went off gadding about town. There was also a little planning to do, and he had saved the change from the shopping money and he was in the mood for cake.

Sitting in a small café overlooking a busy street, a plate piled with chocolate cake in front of him, Draco reflected on his plan. It was simple, and he hoped to whoever was listening that it worked.

He was going to become responsible. He would get a job, buy himself some new pants. He was going to be a friend to her, he was going to be supportive of her relationship, he was going to sabotage that idiot doctor, and she would eventually realise that the idiot doctor was nothing in comparison to him, and she would leave the idiot doctor and come flying into his arms.

Erm, and then he would have to gently rebuff her and remain good friends forever, right?

Yeah. Okay. That could be a last resort.

He didn't like Hermione. He did _not._ He _couldn't._ All it was, this thing going on inside of him, was some sort of childish crush that any normal human being would acquire after spending a decent amount of time with a person, sharing a bathroom and a drunken kiss. Nothing major. It would disappear, just as soon as he met somebody hotter. That didn't change the fact, though, that nobody so far – apart from himself, and that was only barely – was good enough for her, and therefore, the idiot doctor would be gotten rid of.

This plan would work. It would be just like the movies, the final scene where the heroine realises that the hero, her best friend who's always been there on the sidelines, is the one she loves, not the snobbish idiot boyfriend who's been bugging everyone the entire movie. It was going to be _fantastic_, and it was going to work_._

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?" He looked up, expecting to see a waiter. Instead, he saw Ginny-bloody-Weasley-Potter, looking alarmingly cheerful at the sight of her husband's arch-enemy.

"I thought it was you! My goodness, Draco Malfoy! It's been years. How have you been?"

"Just _dandy._"

She was already lowering herself into the chair opposite him. With an air of sarcasm, he inquired, "Would you like to sit down?"

She clasped her hands over her slightly bulging stomach.

"You've put on a few pounds," he noted.

She shot him a filthy look. "I'm _pregnant,_ you _moron._"

"Right. Erm... congratulations, I suppose."

"Thanks!"The annoyance vanished from her face and she launched into a long rambling chunk of gossip and remarks and catching up. Jeez. You'd think the girl didn't hate him, or something, the way she was going on.

He tuned out, occasionally putting in a 'uh huh' or a 'oh, wow' in the appropriate-ish places. When her older brother was mentioned, though, his ears pricked up.

"Yeah, he brought Pansy to the Burrow a few weeks ago... Mum isn't too fond of her; it's something she and Fleur _finally_ agree about. It's actually a bit spooky, they have bitching rallies. And one time, Pansy actually walked in, and shot them the dirtiest looks... it was so hilarious, but then Ron got all up everyone for 'not accepting' his girlfriend. Well, what was he thinking? As if we would. She's a Slytherin, for one – no offence – and your ex-girlfriend, too – no offence. Plus, we all loved Hermione. I'm not talking to him for that, actually. She's kind of dropped off the face of the earth again, though I heard a rumour that she's back in town-"

Finally, something he knew before she did!

"Yes, she is. Actually, we're living together."

Ginny did a double take, rattling the table with the force of her shock. "You and Hermione?"

"Me and her, her and I. Yup."

"You're pulling my leg."

"Truly, I'm not."

"So you two are-"

It may have been a mistake, but he nodded. Hermione would forgive him – probably – when it got back to Weaselbee-the-Stupidest and she realised how much it bugged him. 'Course, the idiot doctor might not be too pleased. That was just a fringe benefit.

"Oh my _God!_ What did you do to her?"

Settling into his chair, finally satisfied with the direction the conversation was taking, he began to explain, "We ran into each other, over in the good land of America, and she let me bunk in her apartment until I found one of my own, but then we decided to return to England together, and, well, we've bought a flat."

"Well, you've _got_ to give me the address," she gushed, buzzing around about pen and paper since they were in a Muggle restaurant. Speaking of which, why did every wizard or witch he'd ever encountered seem to show up in Muggle places? She continued to ramble, oblivious to the fact that his attention was quite clearly somewhere else, and had been for some time. "Well, Harry and I are living in the city at the moment. We lived in Sirius' old place for a bit, but I think it depressed Harry a bit, so we've bought a cute little house now. Mum and Dad wanted us closer to them, but I put my foot down there. The only way _they'd_ be happy is if we moved into the house next door to them, and no _way_ was I going to be subject to the ruckus that house is always party to. They seemed to take it well, though. Mum's promised to visit every other day. She told Harry she'd do his laundry, though, as if, I can do it myself. We live quite near to Dean Thomas, actually. He's living in a nice loft with his artist girlfriend..."

Dean Thomas, Hermione's first official kiss. What a jump his thoughts made, as soon as a link between Ginny's conversation and Hermione popped up. He started listening, but Ginny was quick to flit on to another inane subject, and so he tuned out and concentrated on The Plan. Oh, it would be fantastic. And if it didn't work, he would probably have to resort to jumping off a bridge to catch her attention. Preferably, he wouldn't be forced to such desperate measures.

"So, I'd best be going," she said finally. "Harry's waiting at home, actually. Stop 'round one time, okay? Hermione too. I'm glad we've all patched it up, you know. Well, see you!"

She was gone as quickly as she had appeared. He exhaled, feeling as if he hadn't been able to breathe the entire thirty seven minutes she had been occupying his table.

"Excuse me?" he said to a waitress on her way past, catching her wrist. She turned around, looking as if she were prepared to whack him to kingdom come if he tried to hurt her. He settled his face into his charming smile, and asked gently, "Would I be able to borrow your... your telephone? I seem to have misplaced mine."

The girl shook her hair out of her face to reply to him.

"Oh, my, you're the bitch from the supermarket," he said before he could stop himself.

"One of the more pleasant names I've been attributed with," she growled. "Are you stalking me, you freak show?"

"No. I just _really_ need a phone."

She slipped something shiny and sleek out of her pocket – seemed rather fancy technology for a Muggle who was working multiple underpaid jobs – and held it reluctantly towards him.

"If you eat up all my call time, I'm going to kill you," she warned as he carefully stepped outside the crowded café. It was no better outside; the street was twice as busy. He hurried back into the building, and made his way to the bathroom at the back. Sitting on the counter and fiddling with the soap dispenser, he stared at the item in his palm. He had seen these in action before, of course, but how did people get them _going?_ Seeing a slit at the bottom of the thin box, he stuck a fingernail in, and prised it open. Ooh, buttons. He'd done something right.

Extracting a now-worn business card from his pocket, he carefully punched the numbered buttons that corresponded with their counterpart on the card. Stuck, he glanced at the top of the button panel. Two keys, green and red. Green, Slytherin. Red... Gryffindor. No competition.

To his surprise, it worked. He was shocked, which was why he almost dropped the phone into the sink when an Italian voice said, "Hello, this is Silvano's, how can I help you?"

"I'd, erm, like to make a booking," he tried, feeling rather idiotic, talking into a silver box. The person on the other end of the line – another of those stupid Muggle phrases with no meaning; there was no _line_ – seemed to understand him quite perfectly.

"Of course, sir. For how many?"

"Er, two. For tonight. I expect we'll be rocking up at around seven."

"Of course, sir. Under what name?"

Hmm. Conundrum. On the one hand, this was _Muggle _London, a city that was _supposed_ to be devoid of magical presences. Surely no Muggles would be aware of the connection between his name and that of the traitorous wizarding family that was so commonly known in the magical realm. Then again, everywhere he went, it seemed as though someone from his past knew him. So far, for the most part, they had been reasonably pleasant towards him – except for that horrendous man at the airport – but when would that change? Best not take any chances. He focused on a movie he had caught a snippet of on the flight to London, and found himself blurting out the name of the main characters. "Smith," he lied. "The name is Smith."

"Very good, sir."

With a shaking hand, he stabbed at the red button on the panel. That had been a traumatising and exhausting experience for him. Telephones? Not for him.

Though, if they made _green_ ones, instead of that boring silver...

Slipping out of the bathroom, he handed the girl back her telephone. "Thank you," he said carefully, trying very hard to be polite to her, since she had helped him out and all.

"Yeah. Whatever, dumbass."

On his way out, he caught a glimpse of a newspaper folded over a rack, edges ruffled and well-thumbed. On the front page, his good friend Blaise grinned out of a stationary black and white picture at him. 'Blaise Zabini's new film box office success!' read the headline. Draco knew where he was headed next. He had one final stop to make before he went to meet Hermione at the restaurant. Though it was only about one, he expected that this visit would last all afternoon. Old friends reminiscing and such.

"Blaise!" he bellowed, stepping out of his fireplace – a proper wizard's one, big enough to fit a family, not the tiny Muggle things – and coughing the ash out of his lungs.

"Well, well, if it isn't Draco again!" Blaise wandered into whatever room this was supposed to be – a fireplace, a marble floor, and a portrait of Blaise's mother – wearing his navy dressing gown and matching slippers. He was clutching a coffee cup with gold around the rim, looking as if he'd just woken up.

"Yes, I've returned." Draco did a sarcastic spin. "What do you think?"

"You need new trousers," Blaise observed after a moment of silent appraisal. "I can connect you with a marvellous tailor, if you like. He was an apprentice of that Jordan fellow we used to visit in Diagon Alley, but now he's surpassed the master and started a business in Brazil.

Draco followed Blaise through the house and into a plush living room that seemed almost an exact replica of the old Slytherin common room. Sitting casually on a sofa shaped like a serpent, Blaise asked, "So, Hermione's kicked you out? I admit, it lasted longer than I would have thought. What, three weeks or so?"

"About that," Draco responded, but quickly corrected him, "And no, she hasn't kicked me out. Actually, we're having dinner tonight."

"Hmm. Interesting."

Blaise was suppressing his reaction to the news. It was quite obvious. He'd always been good at that in the old days, having to resist the urge to swear at teachers or falter from the well-bred gentlemanly manner he usually assumed. His face was blank and calm, but after three measured seconds, he burst out a hearty round of laughter and choked, "Seriously? You and _Hermione?_"

"Why is that so hard for you to believe?" Draco asked indignantly, choosing the armchair to perch in. "Besides, we're just friends. In fact, she's got a new boyfriend."

"Yes, I know," Blaise said absent-mindedly, balancing his mug on his knee as he unfolded a long letter from his dressing gown pocket. Scanning it through his eyeglasses, he added generously, "She wrote about him. The doctor, yes?"

"She wrote to you about the _doctor_, but she didn't take the trouble to update you to the changes in our living situation?"

Draco was, in a word, offended. A few others would be: deeply cut, pushed to the brink of depression by her vicious neglect of him, about to cry...

"Oh, she mentioned something about you in relation to a knight in shining armour..." Blaise squinted, trying to find the exact line in the letter.

_That_ was more like it. Some appreciation, finally! And my, how complimentary of Hermione! 'Knight in shining armour'. Gosh! Made him sound _amazing._

He settled into the armchair, looking around. Blaise had certainly spiffed up the place, even if it was a little disturbing that he was so unwilling to relinquish his childhood hang out. There were additions in the room – a French maid dusting the ornaments over the mantel, a few odd tables or chairs, clearly collected during his extensive travels – but for the most part it was just like the old days.

"Here," Blaise said finally, handing Draco the letter and pointing to a particular paragraph.

"'Draco's still here'," he read aloud. "'It isn't so bad, though he's been a maniac, confining me to my room and such. You know we're back in London; it was his idea. Thought I ought to face my fears. He was a real lifesaver, actually. I went a bit insane for a time. He bundled me up and put me on a plane... actually, he's been fairly good in all respects. I had a blow out at Ron's old place before we left, and he rescued me from a slathering drunk. My knight in shining armour. Oh, and you should have seen him the other day... he went grocery shopping; it was the sweetest thing. But anyway. I've interviewed for a job at Mungo's; I think my chances are fairly high'..." He trailed off. Once it stopped mentioning him, he got bored. Blaise had been lying; the ass. It quite clearly implied that they were still hot and heavy, in a manner of speaking. And some of the expressions she'd used to describe him! 'A real lifesaver', 'my knight in shining armour', 'the sweetest thing'? Was this the same Hermione that he was living with?

"You're pleased," Blaise observed, taking back the letter and replacing his spectacles in his breast pocket. "You _like_ that she thinks of you as a sort of hero."

"Well gee, Dr Phil, keep going," Draco snapped, blushing pink. He stood up and walked over to the window, glaring out at Blaise's expansive garden/snake maze with his hands clasped behind his back. The maid crept meekly around him to dust the window frame.

"So, how do you like Healer King?"

The sudden change of tack caught Draco off guard, and his face automatically wrinkled into a grimace of intense hatred.

"Thought so!"

Blaise was far too cocky for his own good. Draco felt around in the smaller fireplace for a poker, but Blaise had Disarmed him the moment his fingers grasped the cool iron.

"Don't even think about it."

"Just like the old days," Draco said ruefully.

They chatted for hours, but an abrupt turn in a conversation led Draco to the real reason behind his visit. They had relocated to the kitchen, where the maid had prepared s'mores for them, and Draco now stood up and announced regally, "Now, you may be surprised to find that I didn't come here simply to catch up."

"I did surmise that," Blaise allowed politely.

"I actually need a favour."

Blaise seemed thoroughly impressed by Draco's plan. "Wow. This must have taken logic beyond your capability. Are you sure you didn't get this off the Internet?"

After Draco emphatically denied all outside participation in the conception of this plan, Blaise informed him, "Actually, this seems quite similar to the plot of the movie I just finished filming. I'm the best friend, of course, and I got this fantastic kiss scene with the girl at the end..."

"Sounds interesting..."

"But anyway, what am I doing rambling? We've got a problem on our hands. Come on. I've got my work cut out for me, haven't I?"

Two hours later, Draco was standing in Blaise's bedroom, holding a navy tie and a dark green one up against his new white dress shirt. Blaise, sitting at a desk and actually _working_, for a change, glanced up and voted for the navy. He was filling out slightly padded resumes for Draco, complete with a letter of personal recommendation from Blaise himself. There was a thick stack of them on his desk, and Blaise was pulling his 'oh my, carpal tunnel, death comes soon' face and complaining loudly.

"What do you think?" Draco asked once again, seriously this time, turning in a circle once he had added the sports jacket.

"Elegant, Italian... you're good to go. Now, I'm having these job applications mailed for you – yes, thank me later – so really, you've nothing to do but be off. Message me if anything fun happens."

"Message? Like, with an _owl?_"

With a short chortle, Blaise flipped a tiny black cell phone through the air at Draco, who gazed at it in wonder and then slipped it into his pocket.

"Right. Gotcha. Thanks for your help, Blaise!"

"Knock 'er dead, y'old prat."

Draco materialised in the fireplace of the house next door to the restaurant, and crept through the snoring couple's dining room to sneak out through the front door. He waited for Hermione in the cold outside the warm restaurant for a moment, until he got tired of that and went inside. It was pleasant inside the building, if a bit under his previous standards. Still, it looked to be clean and decent, so he gave his false name to the hostess and let himself be led to a table set for two.

This seemed remarkably like a date, he realised, noting the single rose in a tall crystal vase, the soft light, and the intimate position of the table, tucked into a private corner.

But then Hermione walked in, wearing one of those little black dresses he had been thinking about the other night, and all thoughts flew out of his head.


	16. A Dinner Dateish

_Chapter 16_

_A Dinner Date-ish_

"Sorry I'm late." She bustled over to the table and dropped her purse on the floor, sighing loudly. "Work was _awful_, God. You should have seen the idiots that came in today." Catching sight of him, she gave a little surprised jump. "You look nice."

"So do you," he said, extending a menu towards her. And she did. Long legs, leaner now that she was so active and didn't just sit around reading. She was wearing black high heels – who would have thought? – and her hair was all nice and... wavy, he supposed girls called it. No bushiness whatsoever. Boy, if Hermione had looked like this during their Hogwarts days, he would have been a _lot_ nicer to her. Perhaps this 'standing on the sidelines, best friend' thing would be a bit difficult. "So, continue. The idiots at work today. You were saying?"

Recovering quickly from the shock that she had gone into at the sight of him looking halfway decent – in _new clothes,_ no less! – she answered quickly, "Erm, this bunch of teenagers... they'd dyed various body parts in bright colours, just for a lark, and they couldn't seem to turn it back."

"Could you?"

"Oh, they preferred to have a male doctor. It was rather a sensitive situation. I just saw them coming in."

Well, good. Hermione _hadn't_ been exposed to any male parts today at work. Unless, of course, she and her idiot doctor boyfriend had met up for a-

No! Bad thoughts! Stupid idiot doctor.

"-And then this forty year old man came in, and his children had shoved a marble up his nose and added a Sticking Charm, and he couldn't for the life of him get it out. _That_ was charming, and... I think I'll get the ravioli. What do you think?"

He jumped. He had been sitting there, his chin on his hand, listening to her speak and watching the expression in her eyes as she described her work. When she addressed him directly, though, he was forced to sit up straight, cast a glance at the menu, and decide on the spot.

"The spaghetti, I think."

"Oh, I love spaghetti. My dad used to cook it all the time when I was a kid, before he-" She clammed up.

Now seemed like a _very_ good time to call for a waiter.

"We'll get a bottle of wine, I think... anything red, yes, fine... and I'll have the spaghetti, and the lady will have the ravioli-"

"The spaghetti," Hermione corrected, frowning sadly. "We'll both have spaghetti."

Oh, Lord. This dinner was supposed to be frothy and fun, just so Draco could demonstrate that he wasn't always a massive pain in her arse. He didn't want her to be sad about her parents, but he couldn't see how to steer the conversation away without looking like a ponce.

"Thank you, Mr Smith," the waiter said as he backed away.

That would work.

"Mr Smith?" Hermione muttered. "Draco, what did you do?"

He confessed his little white lie, and she simultaneously burst out laughing and turned bright red. When he forced her to explain, she mentioned something about couples having affairs checking into hotels under the name Smith. Well, if he'd known that... No wonder she was turning that funny colour and having difficulty breathing.

Of course, that got them talking about movies, which quickly segued into books, which almost immediately escalated into an argument, which had calmed down by the time the bread came. However, it was when they broke out the wine that the conversation really took off.

"First crush," Hermione demanded, pointing her butter knife at him.

"Astoria Greengrass," he admitted. "Another society kid. What about you?"

"Neville, actually. Hogwarts Express, first year. I helped him find his toad, remember?"

"I remember stealing the toad and hiding it in the luggage compartment."

"Oh, you ponce."

As they began on their third glasses of wine, the questions became infinitely more personal.

"First lover?"

Wow. It had been so long ago that he could hardly remember it, let alone which nameless girl it had been with.

"Oh, my God. You seriously can't remember? You're such a little slut, Draco!"

"And you're such a little prude, Hermione. Gosh. Can't you let a guy alone? You're just jealous because I'm a _legend._"

"That's what it said on the back of the bathroom door."

"Seriously?"

The food arrived somewhere in between Hermione's reluctant admittance that Ronald Weasley had, in fact, bedded her, and Draco's blushing recount of his tap dancing days as a five year old. They scarcely noticed the change; just kept on keeping on with their conversations. They had abandoned all usual form of conversation and commenced firing questions like bullets from a submachine gun, rapid and without tact or padding. The wine mixed with the promise of the truth to inspire both of them to tell the truth... until the questioning turned to the idiot doctor.

"Tell me about Adam."

"No."

"Why? Something to hide? Is he secretly a fugitive, running from the law? Did he plastic surgerify his face to look all fancy? Because seriously, only a few certain people can pull off stunning attractiveness with blonde hair, and he is _not_ one of them. It seems almost too cruel of his parents to have bestowed that face on him _naturally_, so of course, that opens the obvious question... Maybe it was a do-it-yourself job?"

Hermione's lips pursed.

Oops. His bad.

So, he wasn't really that good at repressing the lava-like hatred that bubbled under his skin. No matter. He could fix that.

"Okay, okay," he said quickly, pasting a smile on his face and coughing out a laugh. "I was kidding! No need to get all uppity! Look, you know just as well as I do that he's not exactly unattractive... for a Healer."

Upon seeing Hermione's eyebrow flick upwards, he hastily continued in a soft voice, "I just worry, you know. Weasley was his bastard-y little self, and I don't want some guy to just saunter up and hurt you like he did."

Her face softened. For a moment, he punched the air in his head. She looked almost tenderly surprised, and she _stretched out her hand_ to take his across the table.

"Thanks, Draco. You're... well, for no reason I can see, you're being a really good friend to me."

Her thumb ran along the back of his hand, from knuckles to wrist. Just that tiny amount of contact was enough to make him breathe fast.

"Well, we live together, after all. _I'll_ be the one who'll have to deal if he makes you cry." He grinned, so she knew he was half joking. "And on that note, it's also my responsibility, as roommate, to beat him up if said offence occurs."

"Sounds good," she said, forking spaghetti into her mouth.

It was peaceful for a few minutes, eating in silence with a vague tomato-y air of contentedness.

"So, have you two sealed the deal yet?" Draco inquired casually.

"_Draco!_"

"What? I need details! Don't girls love talking about this sort of thing?"

She was almost red enough to match the Bolognese sauce around her mouth. Shaking her head fervently, she corrected him, "Well, I can't speak for anyone else, but _I_ certainly don't enjoy chatting about the details of my current personal life. So, how was _your_ day? Speaking of which, where'd you get the new threads?"

Okay, so, if the girl wasn't going to spill every aspect of her relationship with Adam so he could later use it to break them up, he would have to revert to Plan B, concocted by that devilish Zabini.

"Bathroom break," he said abruptly, depositing his napkin on his seat and fleeing to the bathroom before Hermione began to grill him on his new clothes. Luckily, seeing as this was one of those fancy restaurants, the men's room was decked out with sofas, cushions, and more importantly, a roaring fire. He barricaded himself in, using one of the sofas to hold the door closed, and stuck his head in the green flames.

"Draco, old chap, how goes it?" Blaise asked cheerfully from his favourite armchair. His gown slipped open for a brief moment; it was enough to scar Draco for life, though it wasn't like he'd never had the misfortune of viewing Blaise's junk before.

Cringing at the sight, Draco closed his eyes and rattled off quickly, "Okay, time for Plan B. She isn't falling for my charms."

One of Blaise's professionally tweezed eyebrows shot upwards.

"Isn't the whole point of this," he inquired pompously, "to show her what an understanding friend you are, not to seduce her?"

"Would you believe, the best of both?"

Blaise sighed, and slipped a sleek telephone out of the pocket of his dressing gown. "Speaking of," he added conversationally, pressing a few buttons on the thing, "you _do_ realise that the purpose of my giving you one of these is so that you _don't_ have to stick your head in the fire?"

Oh, right. Draco had been _wondering_ about that foreign weight in his right pocket.

"Nancy? Would you mind telling that healer fellow Adam King that I heard about his service to my friend Miss Granger, and I'd really get off on meeting him?"

With a baleful glare at Draco, he asked exasperatedly, "_Happy?_"

"Very! Now, you'd better get dressed and down here!"

"Despot," muttered Blaise. "But, as you wish."

When Blaise started to remove his clothing, that was Draco's cue to leave. He hastily shouted, "Later, potat-er," as he pulled back.

He pulled his head out of the fireplace and waited until the flames had died back to their usual colour before brushing the soot from his hair and unblocking the door. A short line of impatient looking men were all shooting him nasty looks before rushing in to do their business.

"Sorry about that," he said to Hermione, who was eyeing up his remaining pasta. "You know, when nature calls, what can I do but come?"

They both winced at the sound of that, and then Draco pushed his plate towards her.

"Go ahead. I had a big lunch."

It was true. It had been served on a silver platter by an Oriental looking beauty in a tiny 'lil maid's outfit.

As Hermione stuck her fork into his spaghetti, he chose it as the appropriate moment to ask, "So, you never told me... how's the sex?"

Hermione jumped. Her fork flew to the ground with a clatter, and the chunk of pasta she had just ate got caught in her throat and promptly began to choke her. Oops. Maybe not the best time.

Once she had recovered, first from the choking and then from violently patting herself on the chest, she regained enough self-composure to clear her throat and refuse to answer.

He caught her looking dolefully at the half empty plate. With a cheeky grin, he ran his tongue along the tines of his fork, and then held it out to her. "Want mine?"

Sensing the challenge in his eyes, she took the fork from his outstretched hand and, twirling one strand of spaghetti around it, stuck it in her own mouth.

Wow, the girl had balls. She didn't know where that had been.

On the other hand, it wasn't like they hadn't already exchanged bodily fluids – unfortunately, not quite in the way he would have liked.

Her tongue slid over the fork, just as his had. Their eyes were glued to those of the other. Draco fancied a sizzling chain of electricity tying them together. It was times like these that he wondered why she was with that boneheaded doctor rather than him? They _obviously_ had some sort of mad-ass chemistry. That much was apparent, whenever things like this happened.

A male, annoying voice broke their eye contact, and it wasn't the male, annoying voice Draco had expected.

"Hermione!" called the Boy Who Lived with an extravagant wave. "Ginny, look!"

"Oh, no _way_," Draco muttered, as Hermione let the fork fall to the plate before she jumped to her feet. Hadn't she had some sort of beef with the kid? A falling out about Weasley's idiocy? Now, though, she was pleasant as all hell. This _stank_ like a dead rat.

Being the perfect gentleman he was required to be until Hermione came to her senses, he got to his feet and followed her a few steps over, to where Potter and his little girlfriend were taking their seats.

"Oh my God!" Ginny exclaimed to him as Harry and Hermione talked. "I told you we'd run into each other! I think it, it happens! This is amazing!"

"...Yep."

Remembering the whole 'be civil to Hermione's friends' gig, he added a complimentary, "Sure is."

"We've _got_ to get together for lunch sometime- and in the meantime, you two _must_ join us!"

_Great_, Draco thought with a scowl.

Since Hermione still thought this was a 'friend-date', she looked at Draco for instruction – which she would _never_ normally do. He thought he saw a hint of wistful longing in her eyes, so he forced a smile.

"Well, of course," he said sweetly. "But _do_ join us. Our table's bigger."

That was only _slightly_ a jab at Potter's financial situation. Even though Draco himself was poor now. And, oh, wait. Potter had always been loaded, hadn't he?

Damn. He was just so used to picking on the poor kids.

The idiots joined their table and filled the previously charged atmosphere with their incessant chatter. Their work, their life, their house, something about a puppy named Pugface... After a while – admittedly, a very short while – Draco tuned out, and only occasionally piped in with a few vague 'oh, right?'s and 'yeah's.

Under the table, the toe of Hermione's black high heel slammed into his shin.

"Ouch!"

"What?" The heads of the chattering couple both shot to Draco, who blushed.

"Erm, nothing. Stabbed myself with my... fork."

Potter and Ginny exchanged a glance, and nodded at the same time. He could see some sort of silent conversation going on between the two of them, aside from the actual voiced conversation they were having with Hermione. Living in his father's house for all that time – his father, the master of subtlety – had been almost as efficient a tutor as spending a few weeks with Hermione Granger. He could easily decipher what was going on below the surface.

A flick of a glance towards Hermione from Harry. He had noticed the change in her. Well, duh. How could he not? Though on the inside, she wasn't quite so different – a little snippier, a little meaner – on the _outside,_ she was almost a different person. Perhaps not that severe. She was still _Hermione,_ just with a better wardrobe and hair control.

Ginny responded with a tiny shrug, her eyes creasing as she looked towards Draco. He quickly ducked his head to avoid her gaze, and looked at Hermione. Ginny's meaning was obvious. She was worried about his effect on her, and there was a faint undertone of 'and what are they doing _here_, _together?_'

Harry smirked a little, and looked at Draco. Wow, wait. Was that... had that been a _knowing_, brotherly solidarity sort of glance? As in, intended for his eyes? Attached to an air of 'water under the bridge, let's move on'?

Whoa. This night? _Nutso._

"So, I was having a pretty bad time in New York, so running into Draco was pretty much a blessing."

_She smiled at him!_ For a few seconds, his insides were leaping around like a cheerleader on crystal meth, and he was tempted to do a little cheering as well. He felt like a teenage girl, though it wasn't like he knew _exactly_ what that felt like. But oh, the dreams he had had. He felt like he could imagine.

He had to control himself, so he took a sip of wine in order to distract himself. As he did so, he caught sight of an annoyingly familiar blonde head of hair step through the door in the reflection of his glass. Sure enough, when he turned around, Mr Perfect McPerfect-Head was glancing around the room, looking for Blaise.

Right on time, the stupid doctor caught sight of them. It didn't have quite the effect it _should _have had, since rather than a cosy two-person dinner date, there was a table full of people sitting with his girlfriend...

Still, Ginny and Harry were _obviously _a couple – so much was evident by their tiny gestures: the holding hands, the inadvertent smiles... – so it must have looked like they were on a double date, because his face instantly clouded over with jealously and just a little of that special anger Draco lived to inspire in people.

Draco _could_ have alerted Hermione to her approaching boyfriend. However, that would have been kind of him, and it wouldn't have suited his plan. So, instead, he settled on a compromise. He wrapped his arm around her, jokingly, and said gaily, "We're having a grand old time, aren't we, 'Mione?" in answer to Ginny's question.

Luckily for him, the wine had loosened Hermione's tongue and softened her temper, so she didn't seem at all uncomfortable with his action. In fact, she laughed, and added to his answer, "Occasionally frustrating, though."

Feigning disbelief, he demanded, "How? I've been _lovely!_"

"Confining me to my bed for a week?" she hinted, smiling playfully at him.

Ah. All according to plan.

"Hermione."

She jumped. Startled. Good.

"Hi, Adam!" Draco exclaimed.

Hermione paused in her shock, taking a time out long enough to glance at him incredulously before going back to her startledness. Yes, he was being nice to her boyfriend, but only because it suited him now. As soon as she had come to realise that she didn't actually like him, then the doctor was once again dead to him.

Dead meat, more like.

"Hi, Adam," echoed Hermione, still a bit stunned. "Erm... this is-"

"Harry Potter." At least the boy had the initiative to put out his hand without prompting. "You must be Healer King. I think I saw you when Gin fell down the stairs."

"Oh, right. Erm, I remember," stuttered the doctor.

"And this is my fiancé, Ginny," introduced Harry.

All of a sudden, the doctor swept back his coiffed hair, pulled on the appropriate ass kissing smile, and took Ginny's hand.

"_Enchanté_," he said, pressing her hand to his lips.

Ginny giggled. Harry scowled. Draco scowled too, in the name of manly solidarity. Towards Harry, that is. That girly doctor hardly counted as a man. In fact, Draco could almost guarantee that if you pulled off those fancy trousers of his...

"So, what are you doing here?" asked Hermione quickly.

"Meeting Blaise Zabini, would you believe." He glanced at the spare chair. "Do you mind if I...?"

"Yes," Draco muttered under his breath. Out loud, he said, "Of course," and gestured to the chair like he was the queen or something.

Right on schedule, Blaise bustled through the door. There was a throng of paparazzi swarming around him, but they were promptly locked out of the restaurant and had to be content with snapping pictures through the glass. Standing before the table, Blaise removed his sunglasses and placed them in the pocket of his suit. He opened his mouth, pausing for dramatic effect, and then said one word. "Hermione."

"Blaise!"

She flew into his arms and he swept her off the ground. They hugged for about a million years. Draco was a tad jealous.

However, he had gotten his tongue in her mouth, so ha, suck it, Zabini.

The last time the two of them had met, it hadn't exactly been a happy reunion, seeing as Hermione had been scowling about the fact that Draco was there to stay. They seemed to be making up for it now.

"How are you, love?" he asked her.

"Oh, fantastic. Come on. Would you like to sit?"

_No!_ The whole _point_ of Blaise actually arriving rather than just setting King up had been to get him the hell away from them as soon as Draco had manipulated him to his liking! If Blaise _stayed,_ so would the idiot doctor!

Shooting Blaise a death glare did nothing to influence his cheerful, "Yes, please!"

Turning to his last resort, Draco clutched his stomach. He pretended to heave. And then he ran to the bathroom.

Blaise followed him as if he was glued to Draco's back.

"What are you doing?" gasped Draco as soon as he saw Blaise's reaction in the mirror.

"Oh... you're actually being sick? I thought you were telling me to come with."

"Hardly."

He took a grumpy seat on the frilly sofa, and glared at the door. When someone walked through it, giving Draco a _very_ odd look, he refocused his glaring on Blaise.

"Why'd you have to agree?" he snapped. "You couldn't have pissed off with him?"

"Draco, dear, I'm sorry, but _I_ don't like his company any more than _you_ do."

"Want to bet?"

He wasn't really in a position to bet, considering his finances, but all the same, he mustered up his fiercest glare and aimed it right at Blaise's heart.

"So, why'd you come in here? You don't _look_ sick to me." Blaise sat beside him and pulled a newspaper out of his pocket.

"I'm pretending to vomit so Hermione will take me home!"

"You know, you're an adult. You could always just... leave?"

"No, gosh, that'd make me seem _rude!_"

Sure enough, Hermione burst through the door, looking worried. Draco fell to the floor and pretended to recover from vomiting into the sink.

"Oh my God... are you okay?"

"I don't think the meat agreed with me," he said weakly.

Blaise's eyebrow rose behind his newspaper.

"Do you want to go?" she asked gently. "We've finished eating, and I don't know how much of Harry I can deal with... he'll probably go tell Ron every word I say."

"I don't want to ruin your night..."

"Really, it's fine. Let's go."

Shooting a wink at Blaise as he hovered by the door, he let himself be escorted to the front desk. Hermione started to pull her wallet out of her purse, but he waved her away.

"I've got this."

He saw her eyebrows almost shoot off her face.

"Go say goodbye to the others. I'll wait outside."

He waved her over to the others, and kept a close eye on her as he handed over the silver credit card he had gotten from Blaise. Of course, it _seemed_ like he was scrounging off his friend, but in _actuality_, this was _his_ money which he had lent Blaise during the Dark Period when his mother hadn't had a wealthy husband. All he was doing was collecting.

Hermione didn't kiss Adam. In fact, it seemed as if she was grouping him in with the others. She waved, spoke a few words, and hugged each of them in turn before trotting back over to Draco.

"You know," he remarked, once they were walking down the damp street in the cool evening air, "I'm feeling a lot better now."

She laughed, and stumbled. He held out an arm to catch her, but she had already righted herself. She was surveying her feet with a disdainful look.

"Painful shoes?"

"Very. High heels and me are never a good combination unless they're _very_ worn."

"Now, you know you didn't have to dress up for _me_," he teased, and held out an arm. She looked at it, and then at him. He tried to manufacture his most sincere face, but to his surprise, it seemed to already be flashing across his face, because she took his arm and let him support her down the street.

"So, once we get home," Draco suggested, "I say pyjamas, television, and those bunny slippers you've been trying to hide from me."

She was too tired and in too much pain to object. With an enthusiastic, "Hear hear," she leant her head against his shoulder as they stumbled down the street together.


	17. Failure's Not an Option

_Chapter 17_

_Failure's Not an Option_

They were curled up on the couch together, watching a late night infomercial. As Draco reached for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of them, he realised that this might just be considered – by some wise few – an 'intimate' moment. Over the course of the two hour movie which had preceded the man on the television trying to sell him a machine that would cut his toenails, his meat, and could probably amputate a limb or two at the push of a button, Draco's arm had crept from his side to around Hermione, and her head had sunk from the back of the couch to his shoulder.

He was on the verge of sleep, even though if he went to sleep in the next hour, it would be his earliest night all week. Hermione was almost drifting off as well, but they still managed to keep up a sardonic commentary of the infomercial man's toupee.

"It looks like a dead animal," yawned Hermione into his shoulder.

"Do you think he feeds it?"

"Yeah, poison. If it was alive and moved around, it'd _really_ look suspicious."

She resettled. In turn, he stretched his fingers, but replaced them to their rightful position on Hermione's upper arm.

People who were strictly boy-girl friends probably did this sort of thing all the time. He didn't know; it wasn't like he'd ever had a female friend he hadn't slept with. This probably wasn't anything out of the ordinary at all. For some reason, it felt normal too. Not _normal_, as in, happened all the time. Normal like... It felt normal for _them_, like it was just a thing they did.

They'd never done this before, just hung out without arguing or getting drunk. He hoped it would happen in the future. However, alcohol as an added stimulant hadn't exactly been a _bad_ thing last time it had happened, considering that _that_ had been The Kiss.

Hermione swiped her hand out blindly in front of her. He helpfully supplied the popcorn bowl for her, since this new level of friendship had instilled a strangely charitable feeling in him.

"Thanks," she mumbled, eyes on the television. "Hey, if you're tired, let me know. I can go, if you want."

"Are you kidding? We've still got to see which crappy show won the 'one in the morning' slot!"

She looked up at him suspiciously. "How do you know about that? You're a _wizard_."

He shrugged modestly. "Well, I _have_ had a good deal of spare time on my hands. Speaking of, I've got a job interview tomorrow."

She sat bolt upright, not looking tired for the brief five seconds or so it took her to pick her jaw up off the ground and ask, "A job interview? _Really?_ Where is it?"

He shrugged. "In an office somewhere, doing some stuff... But are you proud?"

"I really am, you know." She sounded sincere, and she was looking at him with big sincere eyes, so he guessed he could officially label her proud.

Seeing her smile like that made him... happy.

Wow. Maybe this 'growing up for Hermione's sake' thing wouldn't be so bad.

"So." She put a cushion on his lap and rested her head on it, her legs dangling over the edge of the couch. "If you've got a job interview tomorrow, I'd say... _half_ of the crappy late show."

"Half? Hmm, okay, unless it's the sort of crappy that's addictive."

She turned down the volume and changed the channel with that odd remote box. As the blue of the television screen reflected off her entranced face, Draco busied himself with resisting the urge to touch her hair. Not in a creepy way, but he would be focusing on the television show – which certainly lived up to its slot – and his hand would absent-mindedly move to her head. More than once, he realised when it was almost too late.

They might be friends, and they might have been participating in a more-than-friendly-feeling activity, but more displays of affection would _probably_ alert her to the fact that she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who was hopefully crying himself to sleep right about now.

"Hey," she said suddenly.

"Mmm?"

"Thanks. For dinner, for being nice to Harry and Ginny and... Adam. It meant a lot to me. And... it was fun, wasn't it? Before they arrived, at least."

With a start, he looked at her, only to realise that she was already staring earnestly up at him. He hastily assured her, "Yes, it was fun. I hope we can... you know, do it again sometime?"

"Definitely."

So what _was_ that? It _sounded_, to Draco, that they had just agreed to date each other. Of course, there were a few outstanding problems with that hypothesis, such as the fact that she thought the dinner had been strictly friendly, and also the one where she had a boyfriend.

"Oh, hey, if you get the job, we'll celebrate."

He raised his eyebrow. "_My_ way of celebrating is usually with a round of body shots."

Had she just winked, or just twitched or something?

"So's mine."

Oh, good Lord. He took back anything he said about this being 'easy' or 'not so bad'. If Hermione had just given him permission to do shots off her, then he was going to have a lot of trouble standing on the sidelines until she forgot about that Adam jerk.

She fell asleep a few minutes later. He couldn't tell for a while. It was only when he asked softly, just to clarify, "Wait, so, you and Adam are still going strong?" and she didn't reply that he realised. Her eyes were closed, but fluttered every now and again. Her hand was resting on his chest.

He quickly debated in his head. Leave her on the uncomfortable couch and sleep in her bed, or carry her to her room and risk waking her?

Neither, he eventually decided, pulling a blanket over both of them. He would stay.

The next morning, he awoke to a weight on his front. He had expected Hermione to have run for it as soon as she woke up, but surprisingly, he had beat her to it. Sometime in the seven hours of sleep they had accumulated, they had rearranged. Rather than sitting on the couch, he was now lying lengthways, and rather than lying with her head in his lap, Hermione was now lying half on top, half beside him, with her head on his chest and one hand wrapped around a fistful of his shirt. One of his hands were on her back, almost around her. He could smell her strawberry shampoo. It was _comfortable._

There was an orange and green clock hanging on the wall by the kitchen, a keepsake from her friendship with Luna Lovegood, and by skill at a contortionist's level, he managed to turn his neck upside down to read the time. It was eight thirty. His interview was at one.

He could afford to sleep a little longer.

This time, Hermione was the first up. Through the fog of almost-sleep, he felt the weight lift off his chest.

"'Ermione?" he asked blearily.

"Hi, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. What time's your interview?"

"One..." he mumbled, rolling off the couch.

Lucky Hermione, having a day off. He wished that he had a day off, too, because then they could have lay on that couch all day, and all the next night as well. As strange as it sounded, that had been the best night's sleep he had ever had on that couch.

He would have brought up getting him a bed – a trundle, at _least_ – if his plan hadn't been to get into _her_ bed in the near-ish future. So. That made the _second_ night they'd slept together – literally. That had to be progress, didn't it?

"What've you got on today?" he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He was wearing striped pyjama pants, but Hermione was already dressed. She had pulled on jeans and a sweater, so he assumed that she didn't have any big plans. The lack of either the killer boots or at least some wicked looking heels signalled that.

"Book hunting, actually. Not for a while. I thought I'd make some pancakes first."

"You can _make_ pancakes?"

She looked sceptical. "Of course. They don't grow on trees."

He wandered over to where she was standing in the kitchen, cupping a mug of coffee. She offered him a sip, which he took gratefully after saying, "Sorry, wrong intonation. _You_ can make pancakes?"

"Watch and learn, o ye of little faith."

She set down her mug and rolled up her sleeves. He took the opportunity to take another pull of her coffee while her back was turned to rummage through the larder. He pulled a face. Hermione drank her coffee hot and very, very strong. His preferred ingestion of coffee was accompanied by a truckload of sugar and cream.

Without turning around, Hermione said, "Oh, and I picked up some green tea for you. Don't think I don't see the faces, Draco."

She had specially gotten some tea for him? Aww.

"Why, thank you," he said, holding out a mug of hot water for her to drop a bag in. He took his usual seat, on the chunk of the counter near the toaster, and waited for this cooking thing to begin. He _knew_ that pancakes didn't grow on trees, but they had always looked rather like flat mushrooms to him. Either that, or the house elves had _really_ disliked him. He had always just assumed that they were somehow picked and syruped.

Apparently not.

She mixed some stuff together in a bowl; he wasn't paying much attention because he was busy savouring how much nicer herbal tea was – with five spoonfuls of sugar, of course – than black coffee. He only restored his concentration to the process when a glob of the pasty batter hit him in the cheek.

Hermione let out a gasp that was _obviously_ fake. "Oh, _sorry_. Now, pay attention!"

He dug his hand into the mixture, ignoring whatever protests issued from that mean little mouth of hers, which would soon be covered with batter. Yes, his plan was premeditated. He could admit that.

Grabbing her around the middle with one arm, he rubbed the other all over her face.

"_Dra-coooo!_" she yelled, scraping a section away from each eye. The _old_ Hermione would have shot a curse at him and run off to Professor McGonagall. Another way Hermione had changed, he had to suppose, because she shot him a dirty look and upended the bowl on his head.

It felt, in a word, disgusting as hell. Okay, three words. That didn't change the fact that his perfect hair was covered with pancake mix, and Hermione was standing smugly and looking fairly clean from the neck down.

A chunk of batter slid down his cheek and plopped onto the floor. And then another.

The extent of the mix had landed on the very top of his head. Gravity was now playing its role and sending it south. He decided to give it a hand.

Shaking his head at her like he had seen a dog do one day, he aimed all of the mixture that flew off of his _tête_ towards her. She shrieked, and jumped about a foot. There wasn't much she could do, though, because if she moved, her precious, spotless kitchen would become covered with flecks of light yellow goop. The ants would have a field day.

There was one advantage she had over him, though. She was a girl. When she flew at him, biting and punching, he couldn't exactly hit back.

Somehow, her accusations and angry retorts managed to digress into laughter. His had always been laughter, so it didn't require such a transformation. They slid down the cupboard doors to the floor, which was lightly speckled with batter. By this time, it was all down Hermione's front. She quickly transferred it to _his_ front, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him close.

He was willing to sacrifice a pair of pyjamas in exchange for that moment.

"You are," she gasped, "such an idiot!"

"You started it!" he argued, running the spatula down her cheek.

"And now we have no pancakes."

He batted his eyelashes at her. "Erm... I call shotgun on the shower!"

He shouldn't have even tried. Once she poked out her bottom lip and hit him with the puppy eyes, he relented, and stayed on the sticky floor while she skipped off and showered.

Cleaning up might have been an idea, if he had known where the mop was. Or how to use it, for that matter.

He did the best he could with a towel, and managed to coat the dustpan and brush in the stuff as well.

It was okay, though, because he'd gotten her laughing, eventually, and he had been pressed up against her for at least five seconds. Nothing compared to the record he had set the night before, of course, but decent. Five seconds with her chest pressed against his bare one was well worth any amount of clean up.

He was whipped already, and they weren't even together. A sad state of affairs, for a Malfoy.

Hermione wandered out in a dress, with a scarf holding back her dripping hair. Using two towels, Draco slid across the carpet into the bathroom after her. She had left it warm and steam filled, just the way he liked it. Convenient, too, because this way the steam covered the mirror and he didn't have to observe how charming he looked in yellow.

Yellow had never worked for him, anyway. Made him look washed out.

The shower was difficult. It was strange to think that only minutes before, Hermione had been standing in this very spot, naked.

He emerged in a towel, having forgotten to bring a change of clothes in with him. The kitchen was already sparkling clean – _wand_, of _course_; he hadn't thought of that – and Hermione was sitting on the couch. When she saw him with only a towel around his waist, she jumped.

"What? Stunned by my hot body?" he teased, rummaging in the boxes Blaise had messengered over. He held up two shirts. "What do you think? Which says 'I'm intelligent, hard-working, and give good-"

"That one," she interrupted before he could finish his sentence. "And the blue tie and the black trousers."

He _considered_ – only briefly, just for a moment – changing in front of her, just to see if she could get any redder. Deciding that he would have mercy on her blood pressure, he retreated into the bathroom to change. The effect that his naked upper body had on her was obvious to him. Did that count as _more_ progress, or did it just mean she found him hotter than he had realised? Well, either way was a bonus for him.

"Okay, I'll be back in a while... I'm not exactly sure how long these things last. But anyway, will you be here?"

"Depends... do you want me to wait for you before I go to the bookstores?"

He considered that for a moment. She was offering to include him in her plans, as if it were a given?

More progress.

"Unless it's inconvenient for you," he said, waiting by the door.

She was already shaking her head. "No, not at all. I'll be here."

With a small wave, he walked away from her tempting call of, "Good luck!" that made him want to turn back and go make out with her on that couch.

Blaise had fielded a call from one of the many companies he had sent a heavily padded résumé to during dinner, and had messaged him on the walk home. Yes, it had taken him a fair while to figure out the whole 'texting' thing, but he had it down now. Anyway, the business in question was in the centre of London, something office-y. Blaise hadn't exactly specified the job to him, exactly. He had just drawn up a list of respectable, responsible jobs. Draco just intended to play it by ear once he got there.

The walk was too much for him. His new shoes were starting to rub, and he only just began to understand Hermione's plight. _She_ had _spikes_ on the end of _her_ shoes, poor girl.

So he called a taxi, having learnt this marvellous skill in New York with Hermione. This time, being determined as he was not to cause another traffic accident, he sat quietly with his hands in his lap, and paid the driver with one of the notes Blaise had converted from wizard money for him.

There was a palm frond in a blue pot in the corner of the lobby of the building. He didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad one, but he had already named it Ivy and made plans to spit his gum into it every morning.

If he got the job, that was.

With a sudden start, he realised just how much he was banking on getting this job. He _assumed_ he would get it; he had gotten virtually anything he wanted through his entire life, eventually. It was only then, waiting for the elevator in Ivy's lobby, that he realised that he really wanted it. It wasn't the job itself that appealed to him – he had no idea what it even was – but it was the stability that came with it that he wanted. Badly. Plus, he wanted to go home afterwards and announce, 'I got the job!' and have Hermione hug him and order those tequila shots. This was one of the steps to win Hermione away from the obnoxious jackass of a doctor. He couldn't fail. More than that, he couldn't tell her that he failed. It wasn't an option.

So he had to win this position. Wasn't there some idiotic psychology thing? He thought he could, therefore, he _would?_ He hoped so, because, as he stood in the elevator with the button for level eight lit up and a man with body odour and a woman with a mole in front of him, he was slowly bucking up his confidence. If there was one thing he had gotten from his family which would be useful now, it was confidence. He was, after all, a _Malfoy._ Malfoys always succeeded. Malfoys were superior. He would have _no_ trouble in squashing his competition.

That had been easy. Confidence? Check. And all it had taken him was levels five to seven.

He straightened his tie, and walked over to the most attractive female in the room.

"Hi," he said gently, "I'm here to see the boss. I've got a job interview."

The girl simpered, and then stood up. He let her walk in front of him so he could observe the effect that a tight skirt and high heels had on her figure. Before she retreated back to her desk, she shot him a flirtatious smile and winked. He paused, fist against the misty glass door, and grinned at her.

"Come in."

The voice was that of a woman, surprisingly enough. He, having been a chauvinistic pig for most of his life, hadn't even considered the possibility that there would be a _woman_ manager/boss/tyrant. It just hadn't occurred to him.

Well. Damn. From what he had heard, female bosses were even nastier than the boy ones.

The woman had striking red hair, obviously dyed since she was about thirty. The body of a twenty year old, though, which she was in the process of demonstrating quite blatantly as she rolled up her thigh high stocking, her be-high-heeled foot up on a chair.

Whoa.

"Hey there," she said seductively, glancing up through heavily made up eyelashes. "You must be Mr Malfoy."

"Um," he choked out, as she rolled the thin stocking over her knee.

"If not... well, you're hired either way," the woman purred. "God, with a body like that... can you start on Monday?"

Though his new boss' abrupt approach had stunned him at first, he decided to take advantage of it now. "It would be my pleasure," he answered, matching her tone and holding out his hand to her. When she held out her own, he pressed his lips against it. That damned Adam King had stolen his trick, but luckily, it still worked.

"I'll see you on Monday, madam," he said, backing out of the office with a charming smirk.

"Looking forward to it," she said, wiggling her claws at him as he closed the door behind him.

Whew. It seemed that the psych-up in the elevator had been unnecessary. This had hardly been an _interview_ – though he hadn't had much experience with them, so who knows? – but more of a show off, an exhibition just to let him know that she was 'hot' and she was waiting.

He shivered. Disturbing.

"Hermione?" he sang out, twisting his key in the lock. "Guess who's got a job!"

She sprang at him as soon as the door opened, just as he had imagined it. Her arms were around his neck, but she paused momentarily to confirm, "You?"

"Me!"

She shrieked, and hugged him tighter.

"Well, we have to celebrate," she exclaimed finally, slightly out of breath from all the bouncing and cheering. Her arms – alas, alack! – unwound from his neck, and she fished a bottle of champagne from the fridge. He took care of glasses, since they were in the high cupboard that she couldn't quite reach without a stool, while she uncorked the bottle. It opened with a pop, and white poured out over her hand. As tempted as he was to down the first glass, he waited patiently until Hermione had filled the other one.

Having no balcony to toast from, they instead wandered over to the fire escape and poked their heads out the small opening. It had the same effect, surprisingly enough, when they leant against the window and concentrated on the cars and the city lights around them rather than the fact that they were leaning on a rickety, rusty platform that hadn't been declared stable for about fifty years.

"A toast," declared Hermione, holding her glass up in the air towards the afternoon sun. "To Draco getting his life together."

"Hear hear," he cried, throwing back the booze as Hermione took a civilised sip.

"Okay," she said, as soon as she'd decided that the period of silence following the toast had gone on for long enough. "I say, postpone book shopping. It's Saturday; we've got all of tomorrow to laze around like that. Tonight? I say we dance."

"You can _dance_?" he deadpanned, but grinned. He _had_ been known to get his groove on every now and again, back in the day. Dancing had been a luxury of late, though, seeing as it required money and everything.

"Of course I can _dance_," she snapped, refilling both their glasses over the edge in case she spilt. She _did_ spill, incidentally, and it happened to splash right on the hat of a little fat man who had been strolling down the street.

Draco flung himself down, laughing hysterically. "Down, down, get down!" he yelled, wrenching Hermione down with him.

When he changed a peek, the man was glaring angrily up at them. Hermione dragged him inside, not laughing as loudly but also trying to repour the champagne.

"So," she said, through her laughter, "once we've drunk our weight in champagne, we'll shower, dress and go?"

"It's still early afternoon," Draco objected, pulling her down onto the couch with him by her hips. "Come on, drink with me a little more!"

She hardly protested at all, not that she really had a choice.

They laughed and drank and mimicked the people on television – only after they'd been drinking for a fair while – and had enough loud fun that neither of them heard Hermione's phone ringing, displaying Adam King's insistent number.


	18. Noble, Almost

_Chapter 18_

_Noble, Almost_

Draco woke up at the foot of Hermione's bed.

Well now. How did _that_ happen?

She was gone. Her bed was mussed, and her pyjamas were strewn on the desk, along with the clothes of the night before. The apartment was quiet, and deathly still.

He wandered out, rubbing his head. "Hermione?" he called, just to make sure she was actually gone before he went for the ice cream. She disapproved of him eating pig fat in the morning. His view was, if he was going to pollute his stomach with milky sweet goodness, he may as well do it when he was actually in the mood for it, which was always in the morning.

There was a note pinned to the chocolate sauce.

'Draco,' it read. 'Out for bagels. You're a naughty, predictable boy.'

He smiled with satisfaction as he threw the note in the trash and drew a smiley face on his ice cream. The smiley face was transformed into a deformed frown, though, when he found that they were out of chocolate chips. Just as he was sitting down to eat, Hermione walked through the door with a paper bag from the bakery in one hand and a disapproving look on her face.

"Here." She wearily threw him a packet of chocolate chips and flopped down onto the couch next to him. Biting into a pastry, she looked up, seeming to be rather surprised by the loving gaze he was serenading her with. "What?" She swiped at her mouth."Do I have crumbs on my face?"

Draco shook his head, still smiling.

"Stop that!"

He didn't.

"Seriously, I'll smack it off."

"You _like_ me," he marvelled. "You like me living here!"

"I'll like it as soon as you start helping out with rent," she hinted, spreading a napkin over her lap. "Really, Draco, we both know this arrangement of ours is out of necessity and convenience. No use getting attached."

"To me? Why, I know I can be very attachable."

She punched his arm lightly. He didn't punch back, because that sort of thing was generally frowned upon in civilised society.

"So," he began, when she didn't appear to want to continue their topic of conversation. "How's Adam?"

She looked confused. "Erm, fine, I guess. I don't know; the last time I talked to him was the last time _you_ talked to him."

Hmm. That was odd. Even during his relationships which had been more about the sex than his actual feelings for the person, he had kept in contact with them. Mostly because the girls he dated let him do more if he was nice and boyfriend-ly to them, but regardless. He would have thought that Hermione would have been one to keep track of her boyfriend.

"May I ask _why_?" he finally asked.

"You can ask, I may not answer."

So it seemed that things were a little chilly in Hermione-and-Adam-land. What a pity. Truly, his heart bled.

"So... what would you like to do today?" he asked carefully.

Now, why on earth would Hermione be so frosty towards the man she had been enthusiastically necking with only a few days before? _Draco_ had thought – regretfully – that they were doing well. If she was dodging his calls, though – because yes, _he_ had heard the phone going off before they had gone out the night before – and going incommunicado for days on end... well, let it be said that normal, functioning couples did not do that. At least, as far as Draco knew. So apparently, Hermione's fantastic relationship wasn't going so fantastically.

Excellent.

Before she could answer him, her phone rang. They both looked at it, and then at each other. Draco _had_ to get that phone.

He leapt for it, having the advantage since he was closer to it. Hermione, though, crawled over the top of him to snatch it away from him. She wasn't fast enough in clutching it to her chest and fleeing to the opposite side of the room for safety, though, because he clearly read the name that flashed across the front of it.

Another call from Adam. Well, if he didn't know better, Draco would say that the idiot doctor _might_ just be getting a little worried. Jealousy, he'd passed. Now, he seemed _frantic_ about Hermione's whereabouts and whoabouts.

"Going to answer that?" he said cheerfully, so that she didn't have a choice.

"Hi," she said carefully into the phone. She shot him a defiant glare, and fiddled with her fingernails. Listening for a moment, she answered, "Yeah, I'm fine... my phone's been turned off all weekend. I've been having some... me time."

"'Me and Draco', you mean," he supplied grumpily from the couch. He didn't appreciate being left out, even if it was to put jealous boyfriend off the track! In fact, he _wanted_ it rubbed in the idiot doctor's face that Hermione had chosen to hang with _him_ this weekend rather than the other dude.

"Yeah, yeah... actually, I'm kind of busy at the moment. I'll just see you tomorrow, okay? Yeah, bye."

She was bright pink as she hung up the phone and hurried into her room. Draco, being his usual persistent self, bounded after her.

"Hermione!" he bellowed hoarsely through her closed door. "Hermione, are you and Adam having some difficulties? I'm here to talk if you are, you know!"

The way he expected things would play out was him persuading her for another forty minutes and then forcing his way through the door, making some headway in gaining her confidence before letting slip with a crude joke or insult which would doom his results.

To his surprise, the door opened immediately to reveal a depressed Hermione. "Really?" she asked softly, opening the door a little wider.

Oh. Seeing her face, he immediately transformed his. She was _serious._ She wanted to talk.

Okay. He could work with that.

He stepped into her room and sat on her bed. Though she had seemed rather enthusiastic about having someone to talk seriously to about her relationship troubles, she sat on the floor with her arms around her knees, silent for the five minutes until Draco realised she wasn't going to speak. So he did.

"What's wrong with the two of you?" he asked gingerly. "I mean, did something _happen_?"

"No. Not with us."

"Um. Okay then."

"He's fine. It's fine. There's just... I feel like there's something weird about it. Like there's something wrong with _me_. Which is crazy, because... I really like him, Draco." Her eyes bore into his, and it _did_ feel like she was drilling into a certain part of anatomy. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. Hadn't she been saying that there was a problem between the two of them? However silly and overconfident it may have been, Draco hadn't been able to stop the flashing slideshow of images in his head that had begun when she stopped taking his calls. The two of them, in the future... together.

Yeah, okay. He could swallow his pride just this one time and admit, out loud in his head, to himself, that he liked Hermione. Not just in an 'I'm your roommate, feed me' sort of way. He _liked_ her. It was made obvious, he supposed, by his plan to make her fall in love with him. Even then, though, he hadn't been constantly thinking about _being_ with her. Now? He could hardly go a minute without thinking about it.

What timing. It was a _fantastic_ time to have this particular epiphany, at the exact moment that Hermione revealed that she had deep and undying feelings for her previously estranged boyfriend.

His life? Constant party.

"Erm... okay. Okay." He had to be adult about this. He had to be... mature. The word sparked revulsion and a hint of dread in him, but that didn't change the fact that his quest to win Hermione had come with a degree of that disgusting substance. Maturity. Ew.

He turned suddenly so he was facing her. Their knees were touching, and her eyes were on his. She seemed almost afraid, as if she thought he was going to pull out a knife.

"Let's think about this," he said. "Tell me _why_ you like him."

Was that a mist glazing over her eyes?

She was silent. That had to be a good sign, didn't it? He couldn't allow his hopes to rise, though. Even as he told himself that, he felt them do just that. Was she hesitating because she _didn't_ really like him? When she had said so, moments before, she had been lying, to try and put him off the scent? Because she was _really_ in love with him, Draco?

Yes, definitely mist.

Her mouth opened, and at the same time, his hopes died a torturous, painful death.

"I like him because he's intelligent-"

_Draco_ was intelligent.

"-and we can talk for hours and hours on end. Some nights back in New York, we would have to stay late and fill in paperwork together, and we would get completely off topic and branch off into talking about books or people or whatever..."

The very night before, _they_ had spent hours and hours talking together.

"He's not really into the same things as me, hobby wise, but we can educate each other. I've been trying to get him into reading more, and though he's a stubborn little prick sometimes, I think I'm winning him over-"

Well, reading was one of Draco's favourite activities, surprisingly enough due to his lack of proximity to the library over his seven years at Hogwarts. Hadn't they gone book shopping just yesterday?

"And I love how expressive his eyes are... I can always tell what he's thinking, and I don't know, it makes me feel powerful, somehow..."

What was that expression on Hermione's faint? What was the reason for the tiny smile that played across her lips?

He had to accept it. Even through all of the 'maturing' he felt he'd gone through, he still retained a certain air of superiority. He had always assumed that he would win Hermione over eventually, that she didn't really like this doctor as much as she said, that she was secretly harbouring a passion for Draco. When he saw the look on her face, though?

He knew.

Nodding slowly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it wordlessly in Hermione's hand. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before he stood up and walked out of the room.

So this is what it feels like to be an adult, he mused, leaning against her closed bedroom door.

He could hear her voice through the door. "Hey... Adam? My schedule's magically cleared. Would you... erm... like to come over?"

His verdict on the whole grown up thing? _Crapola._

Why was it that the poncy losers of the world always ended up with the intelligent, sexy bookworm-turned-bikie-jacket-wearing-hotties, while the noble, courageous heroes were left to mope handsomely into their herbal tea?

Though the temptation to sit squarely down on the couch and make their date hell was almost too strong to defy, he grabbed his coat, his keys, and Hermione's phone since she had his, on his way out the door.

He didn't feel obligated to tell her where he was going, or that he was even leaving. In his opinion, once your secret crush of a roommate falls for someone else, your obligation slips off the face of the earth, as does your heart. Pretty much described his feeling at this point in time, so he adopted it at his philosophy.

The sidewalk was wet. He blamed the cosmos, pitting _everything_ against him on this particular day. His love life, the weather... they were all well and truly failing him on the day he needed comfort most.

What better for comfort, he realised suddenly, than chocolate cake?

He chose a different café this time. With his luck, Ginevra Weasley would be a regular at the other and ambush again. He wanted to avoid contact with everyone, today.

There were three chocolate cakes in the case. One was labelled 'life sucks'. "Hear, hear," he muttered, pointing to it. "Life sucks," he informed the waitress.

"Indeed it does," she deadpanned, holding out her hand for the money.

He called Blaise from his window-side table. His number was programmed into the speed dial, naturally, as number two. That sparked his curiosity. As he waited for Blaise to pick up, he guess-and-checked a few combinations of buttons until it displayed a list of Hermione's speed dial numbers. My, oh my. It seemed that _he_ was her favourite phone buddy in the entire world. He couldn't help but be uplifted at that.

"It's Blaise. Speak."

Blaise's deep voice reminded him of his previous and future glumness. Like a rubber band, he snapped back to it, and like a rubber band, he left a stinging welt across his own heart.

"Alas, alack. Life as I know it has ended. The plan has failed. The ship is sunk. To be, or not to be?"

"For all the sense you're making, you _could_ be talking to a skull," Blaise rumbled, trying to suppress an excited laugh. "See that? That reference? _Hamlet_, and yes, I know what that is now!"

"Wow. Impressive. Can we focus on my impending doom and heartbreak, please?"

"Sorry, sorry. Where were you? Thinking about whether to off yourself, I believe."

"More contemplating _method_ than the actual _act_." A steaming mug of hot chocolate appeared in front of him. Stencilled in chocolate on top of the froth was a smiley face. The girl at the counter winked at him.

He toasted her silently, and waited for Blaise's advice on the whole suicide conundrum.

"Life is better; why don't you come over and drink with me? I've got a half hour window in between my photo shoot and my interview for Hottest Man of the Year."

"Tempting, but thanks. I'm already drowning my sorrows in chocolate death."

"Enjoy!" sang Blaise, and hung up on him.

Ten seconds later, just as he was digging an idiotically tiny fork into his cake, the phone began to buzz and rattle on the table. When he flipped it open, there was a tiny little envelope on the screen.

'Why are you on Hermione's phone???'

Oh, wouldn't _he_ like to know.

Wait. He was on _Hermione's phone._ As in, the centre of her entire being aside from her stuffed wombat, Billy.

Now would be the _perfect_ time to make the acquaintance of a few of his new colleagues, the nerdier the better.

That could wait until after cake, though.

Once Draco had ingested enough calories to last him a month, and left a sizeable tip on the table for the waitress, he wandered a few blocks over to his fancy pants place of business, where he could almost guarantee that at least ten of the eleven people in the lobby would be able to help him.

However, he preferred to go up a few levels. The lobby, it seemed, was the permanent hang out of balding, middle aged men. He would rather be helped by an intelligent beauty who he would later have to repay in one way or another.

The girl who had shown him to his boss' office the day before was sitting at a desk with a strange thing in her ear, typing furiously.

"Hi there," he said, in his bestest seductive voice.

"Draco Malfoy," she said with a startled jump, dropping the earpiece.

"You know my name."

"Word gets around."

"It seems that way, doesn't it? Now, since I've been denied the pleasure of introducing myself to such an intelligent looking lady as you, I suppose it's now up to you."

"I'm Mallory." She extended a golden hand for him to shake. Her nails brushed against the back of his hand for a second too long.

"Mallory." He perched against the edge of her desk. "I was wondering if you had any expertise in the area of _technology_. See, I need to get the contents of this phone onto something else. Anything else. Eenie meenie minie mo, if you'd like."

In two minutes, he was strolling out of there with a phone number, a round disk, and a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Hold it!" a voice cried from behind him as he stepped into the elevator. As 'hold it' had previously meant _stop_ to him, he paused, stock still. The elevator door began to slide shut, and it was only by jamming his foot into the gap that he managed to force it open again.

A girl hurried into it, not exactly fitting the standard of the other employees in the building. Where the others were in pearls and pump, she was wearing sneakers and dark eye makeup. Her hair flicked all over her face, and he couldn't make out the details of her face well enough to judge whether he'd be remiss in not getting his third number of the day.

"Oh no. Not _you_."

She shook her shaggy fringe out of her face, to reveal... the bitch from the grocery store. Oh, _super_. _Just_ the person he wanted to be enclosed in a suspended metal box with.

The girl rolled her eyes and faced away from him. Was he really _that_ repulsive to her? Goodness.

He was silent for a few levels, but then burst out with, "Okay, you're stalking me aren't you?"

"Stalking you." It seemed as though her statement was supposed to be a question, but her monotone voice remained monotone and uninterested, so he couldn't tell.

"Yes. I _saw_ you in New York; I know I did."

"As if."

She could deny it, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't been high or drunk when he had seen the green-shirted girl in the middle of the street his first day out in New York. Therefore, it had happened, and there was no convincing him otherwise.

"Look." She stepped forward as the orange light flashed the number 'two'. "I'm not stalking you; London just seems to have grown very, very small. Get used to it, though, if you work here now."

"Why?"

The doors opened. She didn't reply to his question, just battled through the growing wind outside, wrapping her coat around her small frame.

He was puzzled. Puzzled, because the girl was so _strange_. Mysterious, in a frustrating way. And puzzled, because she had managed to distract him from the fact that Hermione was probably kissing her boyfriend right now. Probably something even worse.

But it was okay, because he had the contents of her telephone on a disk in his pocket. He would try to stand on the sidelines – permanently, this time – for a while, but if that didn't work, there was no guarantee what he would do with the information he had acquired.


	19. Catfight

_Chapter 19_

_Catfight_

The risk of walking in on Hermione and Adam making out was too great, and it won out over his need to crawl onto his couch and fall asleep. So he kept on walking aimlessly along the street until he ran straight into Ron Weasley.

It took him a moment, until he had picked himself up and dusted himself off, before he registered the fiery head of hair and the perpetually confounded expression on the face opposite him.

"Weasley," he snarled.

Weasley's lip curled, as if he had a reason to be disgusted with the brushing of his skin cells against _Draco's._ Really. It was _Draco_ who had right to be concerned about catching some strange blood traitor-y disease from the unclean boy.

"Malfoy," he answered, grimacing.

It was like an explosion of fury within Draco's head. Not all at Weasley – though a fair deal of it _was_; he had treated Hermione like dirt – but aimed at him anyway because he was the nearest and most available target. Combined in with the putrid hatred of Weasley and everything he had done to Hermione was a large dollop of his dislike for that idiot doctor, and also a vague amount at everything else that was wrong in his life. The fact that Hermione seemed to be choosing anyone in the world before she would consider dating him, for instance. The fact that no matter how hard he had tried over this past weekend – the dinner, the dancing, the book shopping – she couldn't see him in any way other than as a friend.

Yeah, that all came out at Ronald Weasley, via his fists.

He snapped, like an elastic band that's been stretched too far, and flew at him in the middle of the street. In his defence, Weasley pretty much met him in the middle, so it wasn't like he was beating up a defenceless little boy.

He paid no attention to the exclamations and protests of the people around them. All Draco could think about was causing Weasley as much pain as he possibly could in as many different ways as possible. Fists were flying, mainly, but he also managed to get in a few good kicks to those stupidly long shins.

It was surprising, how much stronger they'd both gotten since their few wrestles in their younger years. Draco had always thought of fist fights as a crude method of causing pain to someone – why bother when you can cut a hole in them with your wand? – but now it seemed he was proving himself wrong., This way was far more fun.

Most of his light-heartedness over this piece of vulgarity was due to the fact that Weasley couldn't hit to save his life. He kept missing any important parts of Draco, which gave Draco more than enough time to get in a few quick jabs to his ribs or his groin. It seemed as though there was an unspoken barrier over hitting there, but Draco had always been one to play dirty so that rule went up in smoke almost immediately.

They barrelled into a set of table and chairs at the café they had been walking past, frightening a family, two couples, and a girl whose boyfriend was breaking up with her. Draco was sure she'd be glad for their interruption. However, Weasley then tried to stab him with a fork, so he went back to concentrating on bashing his skull in.

Draco felt a fist connect with his nose. He was already retaliating, popping him one in the head. He was surprised he knew how to do it, how to fight like this. It wasn't like he'd had much practice. It came to him naturally, like kissing or dancing or something.

Dancing... That night that he and Hermione had gone dancing had been one of the best of his night. They had stayed up almost all night, separating occasionally but mostly staying together. They ordered a few drinks, sat down for a little while every hour or so, but the majority of their time was spent looking into one another's eyes as they let loose.

His reverie gave Weasley an advantage. That was when he did most of his damage.

Draco was determined to win back his lead, so he fought back even harder.

When hair started being pulled, and Draco discovered the beauty of the nipple cripple, a few men from the crowd dove into the fray and pulled them apart. The damage was impressive, once they were far enough away from each other to calm down a bit. There was a fountain of crimson running out of Weasley's nose, and his face looked almost unrecognisable. Though he probably didn't look much better, he couldn't help being impressed with himself.

"Over a girl?" asked one of the men holding him knowingly.

He didn't reply, but the look on his face must have been answer enough.

"I hope she's worth it. Are you right to get home, mate?"

"I'll be fine," Draco snarled. On his way stumbling past Weasley, he purposely bumped into him and hissed, "If you ever speak to Hermione again, I will _kill _you."

"I'd like you see you try."

He was too exhausted to snap back, and his ankle was actually throbbing quite a bit from when Weasley had stepped on it. So he limped home. Now, the idea of his couch was too tempting to even bother caring about the doctor. They could go make out in Hermione's room. That's what doors are for, after all.

Climbing up seven flights of stairs was _not_ easy with an injured leg and a head that felt as if it had been thrown in the middle of a hurricane. He was fuzzy and foggy and felt almost drunk, but in a painful way. He fell against walls on his way up and almost knocked down the old Greek lady who offered him a sandwich.

"Sorry," he choked up, dropping down onto his hands and knees for a moment until his head cleared.

He almost hoped that Hermione would emerge and see what he had done for her, maybe feel a little guilty for being the cause of all this. But she wouldn't. She was otherwise occupied.

He almost collapsed at the door, but he managed to push it open and fall into the apartment. He was right. Hermione and the doctor had been kissing on the couch, but as soon as the door opened, they sprang apart.

"What _happened_ to you?" he heard Hermione ask frantically, running over to him.

He couldn't answer her. He _could_ fall asleep, though, which he decided to do as soon as he heard Hermione say to the doctor, "I need to fix him up. You should probably go."

"Are you sure? I can help."

"No, go. I think Draco and I have to sort this out ourselves."

When he woke up, his head was cradled in Hermione's lap. She was absent-mindedly stroking his hair. That particular activity stopped as soon as she realised he was awake.

"Oh, good, you're up."

He gingerly felt the damage. To his surprise, his face felt normal and clean. There was a faint feeling of warmth lingering on his skin, obviously the remnants of some sort of healing spell.

"Good work," he said hoarsely.

"Well, it's what I do. Here. Water?"

She propped his head up and held a cup to his lips. He found that he quite liked being cared for, mothered like this. Hermione had a very maternal quality about her when she got like this.

"Thanks."

There were a few minutes of silence. Draco wondered how long it would last. He gave it... oh, about five more seconds? Five... four... three-

"So, are you going to tell me what happened, or should I guess?"

He swallowed. "I ran into Weasley."

"_Ron?_"

"Yes."

She buried her face in her hands. He let his head fall back onto her thighs and looked up at her, waiting for her to stop freaking out and make the comment he knew was coming.

"Did you hit him first, or he you? Because I swear to God, Draco, if you got hurt because of me..."

She trailed off, but he could use his imagination. She didn't need to know that all this _was_ because of her, did she? That, as corny as it may sound, he wasn't just hurting on the outside? It was a fair hit to his self esteem when a girl he liked went to even the most loserly idiots before him.

"Well... I guess I hit him first. I'm sorry; it just... happened."

She threw her arms around him, closing her eyes against his cheek. "Thank you," she murmured. "It's... sweet of you."

"Sweet of me?"

Well, okay.

"Yeah. Sweet."

"I thought you were going to hit me. Call me an idiot or something. But... you're welcome, anyway." He sat up. "So, pizza?"

She looked apologetic. "I'm sorry; I've already eaten."

"That's okay."

He was good just sitting there, beside Hermione, knowing that for once, she cared more about him than she did for her boyfriend.

"You can, though."

"No. It's fine."

After a few minutes, he put his arm around her shoulders. A second or two after that, she leant her head on his shoulder.

And there they stayed.


	20. First Day

_Chapter 20_

_First Day_

The bad thing about being responsible, growing up and all that hoopla was that you kind of have to get up and _be _responsible, rather than just _say_ you are. Thus, in accordance with his new adult philosophy, Draco had to get up early for his first day at work the next morning, regardless of his just-healed injuries.

"Rise and shine, Draco. You've got work today."

"Urgh."

There was a pool of saliva in his mouth, which suddenly took on a strange taste with the thought of working in a place where he knew nobody but the supermarket bitch and had a boss who wanted to get in his pants. He tried to groan again, but instead ended up gargling his own spit.

"That's disgusting. Now, get _up_. Croissants in the griller."

Well, the smell of baked goods consoled him to his fate. But only a little bit.

He crawled over to the oven without a shirt on. Hermione looked disapproving. "Get your nakedness away from my food!"

"This is only half naked, but if you _like..._"

Reluctantly, he pulled on his fancy work clothes. He didn't enjoy wearing clothes. Being naked was far more enjoyable.

Hermione was wearing more fancy Muggle clothes. He didn't know why she bothered with clothes underneath her robes. He hadn't bothered, more often than not, all through school. He, though, didn't have any robes to wear at all, due to the whole 'working in a Muggle business so his enemies don't find him' thing.

"Okay, we'd better go... you start at nine, right?"

"Mhm."

"Alright." She trotted over to the door in her high heels, ushering him out in front of her. "I'll be home at about six, maybe later if Adam and I go out for drinks. You've got my number if you need it. What time will you be home?"

He shrugged, a croissant caught between his teeth. "Later," he mumbled through the pastry, and left before her.

It was lucky for him that his work was within walking distance. Partly because he needed the exercise what with all the junk he ate, and partly because he was fairly sure cab drivers didn't take credit cards, which was his sole source of money at the moment. At least, until he received his first pay slip. Hermione had set up some sort of bank account for him, a boring one by the sound of it. No vaults, no cart ride. Bor-ing.

"Morning," sang Mallory as he walked past her desk. "And welcome."

"Wow, thanks. Er, I'd better go on in there..."

"Oh, yeah, sure, sure."

She shot him a flirtatious smile and swivelled back around to her computer. It occurred to him – at this most inconvenient time – that he still had no clue what he was doing here. So, instead of going on to see the old cougar, he leant over by her desk and shot her a wink. "What're you doing now, Mallory?"

"I'm typing up this article that I wrote last night. It's about... romance. You could read it later. You know. If you want." She ran her tongue along her lips, wetting them while letting him know how easy she was.

Lovely. What desirable qualities in a colleague.

Usually, they _would_ be. Just not when he was unrequitedly falling for his taken roommate.

At least he had discovered what they did here. It was a newspaper, right? Apparently, the photos here were boring and unmoving. That would take some getting used to. Other than that, though, he figured he'd fit right in. He'd always been amazing at the writing part of school, and at composing vicious letters for people. He had lost count of how many girlfriends he'd dumped for people via the written word.

"So, I guess I'd better go now. I'll see you later... Mallory."

Sure, it was bad of him to get the girl's hopes up. _However_, it might do Hermione a world of good to walk in on _him_ making out with someone for a change.

God knew he needed some action after all this time.

His boss was... well, waiting for him. Half dressed. Looking rather excited.

"Hey there," she purred, almost popping out of the blouse that only had two buttons done up.

"Er, hello, ma'am. Reporting for duty." He worked quite hard to hold back from laughing at his own joke. She didn't.

Her laugh was annoying. Like a hyena. If he had to listen to it for an extended period of time... well, he'd need a pay rise.

"So what would you like me to do?"

For a moment, just a moment, she snapped into business mode. "I've assigned you a desk by Mallory. She seemed eager to show you the ropes. Help her out with her story, and once you've mastered the photocopier, you can submit something to be and I'll judge what your first piece ought to be."

"Aye aye, captain."

She winked at him. "I'll see you later, sailor."

He shivered on the way out of her office. He felt as though he needed to take a bath in antibacterial gel.

Mallory waved him over, and was about to begin explaining the photocopier when she broke a nail on the corner of her keyboard. Laughing wouldn't have made a good impression on his first day, so he stored the mental image for until he was alone.

"No worries," he said airily. "I'm sure I can figure it- oh."

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a pissed off supermarket-bitch, slumped against the side with a canvas book bag slung over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in the other.

Seeing his eyes snap to her, Mallory commented under her breath, still focusing intently on her nail as the resentful tone seeped into her words, "That's Freddie's daughter. _Absolute_ psycho; don't even bother."

"Mother!" called the girl, sweeping past him with only a slight sniff. "I'm _starving_, and somebody knocked a bottle of bleach on my jeans this morning!"

Whoa. He could feel the icy breeze from a mile away.

"So. The copy machine? I could... show you how to press its buttons."

How could the girl manage to make _that_ sound dirty? She managed with aplomb, and left him with almost no choice than to follow her over to the photocopier and let her shoot him seductive glances as she leant against the machine.

"Is it scanning?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh. Right. Erm." She coughed, and straightened her gaping blouse. Not that he was objecting, but _why_ was every female in the building showing him their breastage today? "Uh, you press this button here, and-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something – someone – in bright purple hovering by Mallory's desk. When he looked again properly, the figure was gone but the computer was flashing static left right and centre.

"Is that your computer?" He pointed.

"My computer? What? ...Oh, my God. _Oh my God!_"

She ran back to the desk, her high heels clacking on the linoleum and more swear words issuing from her painted lips than from _Blaise_ on a _bad_ day. My, these modern girls with their filthy mouths and filthier glances.

Grateful for the distraction, regardless of the animosity that accompanied it, he explored the copy machine alone. Peeking under the lid, he found no paper, but a foggy imprint in the glass. The tray, he realised, was filling with pages and pages of paper, all covered with the exact same facsimile of a butt.

Someone at this paper was a maverick, and he was determined to figure out who it was.

Besides, it looked like a nice ass, from what he could see.

So he jammed a copy or two in his pocket to show Hermione later – that was _just_ the sort of thing they would get a kick out of, together, without Adam around as they relaxed in their friend-though-one-of-them-secretly-wants-to-be-more-than-friends-ness – and then stole back over to Mallory. She was still fussing over her computer, so he took the opportunity to run away from her, into the break room.

Turning his fancy new phone – at using which he was becoming quite adept – towards himself, he snapped a picture of himself in between the water cooler and another fake palm frond. He had been prepared to hide out in here until home time, but it didn't seem to be a very good hiding place, due to the fact that it was a public area and all.

Instead, he wandered down the hallway until he came across a tiny, dark room. The first thing that hit him when he walked into the room was the simultaneous wave of the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and the image of the supermarket bitch, her upper body hanging out a window and her behind looking _fascinating_ in torn jeans.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't realise you were here."

She wiggled out from the window, a cigarette between her lips. A grimace tugged at the sides of her lips, but she managed to climb down from the desk she had been standing on and offer him a cigarette with some semblance of civility.

Sitting with their backs against the wall, she observed, "You're hiding."

"Can you blame me?"

"Aren't guys into chicks shakin' their goodies all over them?"

"Nice. And no. Not this guy."

He twirled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. He had had a reluctant run in with smoking during his sixth year, thanks to an insistent Blaise. He was fairly sure he'd acquired more than enough lung cancer to last him the rest of his life, so he didn't intend to repeat that experience. Rather than light it with the zebra-striped lighter she had passed him, he tossed it from palm to palm until she stubbed out her old butt and snatched it from his hands.

"Why are you smoking in here?"

"Why are you in love with someone else?" she countered fiercely.

Wow. Okay. Mindreader? He could work with that.

"I hear things," was her answer to his unspoken question. "Because I listen. Answer me."

"Erm, I'm not going to open up to you about that. I don't _know_ you."

"Then vice versa."

"Okay, okay," he finally relented. "It's my... roommate. She's got a boyfriend. End of story."

"You're in love with Hermione Granger?" she asked incredulously.

That was getting spooky.

"Again, I hear things," she snapped. "C'mon. Go. Work. It's what you're being paid for, I presume."

Ending their hurried conversation on such a negative note didn't seem to be a good idea, especially with the knowledge she had just acquired, but he couldn't do much to change that when she was forcibly pushing him from the room before slamming the door and locking herself in.


	21. Church Bells, Death Knells

_Chapter 21_

_Church Bells, Death Knells_

One week. That was how long he had put up with this. It would have to end, soon.

It had been a week since he had started work at the newspaper, and he was finally beginning to settle into the routine. The first day had been a shock, though. By the end of his very first day of work, ever, he had been asked out by Mallory, gotten his finger caught in the fax machine, and accidentally sharpened a pen. An accomplishment, if you asked him, which everyone surprisingly did.

Since that day, though, he'd actually done something a little more productive than hiding. For one, he had caught the freaky supermarket bitch doing up her belt, a new stack of photocopied butts in the tray. Funny, because _now_, he knew how to do his own. That Mallory was useful for that, if nothing else. He had decided to make an actual, grown up effort in the week following his first day, and consequently, had sorted, numbered, and stapled until his fingers were numb. A handwritten note from the Wicked Witch of the West had informed him that if he was a good boy, he might be able to submit something written. Super.

Every day, he would get up at seven thirty, and arrive at work half an hour later. He would throw out his disposable cup, previously filled with the tea that allowed him to be his fabulously peppy self. He would dump his briefcase in his _very own cubicle_ – now tastefully decorated with a rock poster and a picture of himself – and he would run around like mad, collecting papers from seemingly everybody in the building other than himself. The morning would be spent in that manner – behaving like a headless chicken – before he finally allowed himself a donut and an hour of hiding. Hey, a leopard couldn't be expected to change _all_ its spots cold turkey, could it?

He had only seen the be-fringed weirdo twice during his first week at the paper. Once had been the aforementioned butt-printing, and the other had been a brief but violent encounter in the elevator. She had dropped a cup of coffee on his foot. _Boiling _coffee. She was such a charmer.

Now, it was Friday, and the weekend was awaiting him with a beckoning smile. He was planning two and a half days of pure, mind-blowing...

Fun. Yeah, sure. _That's_ what he'd been thinking.

He had been sent off early by his boss with a wave of her talons and a seductive smile. He couldn't help but whistle his way down the street, suddenly cheered by the prospect of Hermione waiting at home to see what the verdict on his first week was. Of course, he wasn't about to give her an honest account of events – seeing that he'd done almost _no_ work whatsoever for the first half – but he could lie with the best of them.

When Hermione _wasn't _in the apartment, though, he realised quite suddenly that _she_ had a job also, and unfortunately could not be expected to stop her life just for his sake. Wouldn't life be so much better, though, if she _did?_

He took off his clothes and sat on the couch with a bowl of peanuts and some chips in front of him. A glaring dilemma smacked him in the face. Which idiotic game show was he going to watch? The one with the toupee-wearing presenter, or the redheaded one? Well, that was easy. Red hair made him think his boss and Weasleys. Toupee guy it was.

Hmm. After ten minutes, it seemed that he had made the right decision. The lady in the ball gown who presented the prizes was particularly buxom tonight.

"Honey, I'm _home_!" sang Hermione from the door, pushing it open with her hip and racing to dump the mountains of crap in her arms.

"Someone's cheerful!" he called backwards, turning and hanging over the back of the couch to get a look at her. "What's up?"

"Saved a life," she said dismissively, "and... Chinese!"

_That_ caught his attention. "I'll get the tunes!"

The routine thing hadn't just been at work. At home, too, they had fallen into a dysfunctional sort of rhythm which seemed to work. Hermione would wake him, pop a Tart for him, send him off to work, and then greet him when he returned home. Dinner was the most important meal of his day, seeing as it was the longest he spent with Hermione, except when she was out with that damned doctor. She usually cooked, though he was slowly learning, and Draco would arrange music to match the theme. Mexican was Los Lobos, or Ricky Martin if they felt mocking. Italian was always some strange opera Hermione liked, and he always had fun with hot dogs and Elvis.

"What _Chinese_ music do we have?" Hermione asked curiously, peering over the counter at the stereo.

"You sadden me."

_Hong Kong Garden_ filled the air, mixing with the delightful fumes of spicy chicken noodles and chow mein. He danced his way over to the kitchen, and Hermione handed him an armful of little white containers.

"Oh, don't dance," she cried exasperatedly, but the smile on her face suggested that her desires said otherwise. She crossed her legs on the couch, looking rather bemused with a pair of chopsticks in her mouth.

"I can't eat and sit still; you know that!"

He worked his way through half an album and three containers before he ventured onto the Adam subject. "So, plans for this weekend? Hanging with Adam?"

Her face instantly fogged over, hiding any emotion she had been displaying before. Disconcerting. He took that as a _none of your business._

"I don't know, actually. We haven't made plans. I'm open."

"_Well..._"

_Conscience,_ he tried to say severely to the niggling voice in his head, _okay, okay, I heard you the first time. But just because I'm being noble _doesn't_ mean I'm not going to take advantage of this opportunity!_

"_If_ you're open, as you say, I was thinking about going on a road trip."

"A _road _trip? Colour me curious."

He shrugged. "Just an idea. Blaise offered me the use of one of his holiday homes in France. You like France, right? Didn't you go in the third year holidays, or something?"

She paused. "How did you know that?"

"I take notice of things... Just because I didn't associate with you doesn't mean I didn't pay attention to the goings on in your life."

"Yes, creepy."

"_Anyway_, what do you say? I was going to leave early tomorrow so you and Adam had the whole weekend alone, but if you want to come, that'd be... cool."

"_Cool?_"

"Yeah. Cool."

Hermione carefully put down her chopsticks. Their eyes met. She swivelled her body around to face him, and took a deep breath.

"Look, it's fine. Really. It was just a suggestion, if you didn't have anything fun on-"

"-I'd love to."

"Okay!"

Exciting! The idea of him and Hermione spending a romantic French weekend alone, even if she didn't realise it was romantic, was almost the _best_ way he could think to spend this weekend. The absolute best, of course, was for her to be fully aware of the romanticism of the occasion, and for there to be lots of sex. Well, he could always try.

"I was thinking of really Muggling it up," he added. "You know. I've never been on a boat before."

"Really? Well, you know," she began quickly, "we could always leave in the middle of the night, if you want. The ferries still run early, and we'd have all of Saturday, then."

"Great idea!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, crossing his own legs and facing her on the couch. "So, what's the weather like over there? I'm just thinking about packing... light layers, do you think?"

Their noses were almost touching, and his hands were gripping her knees in the excitement of their flurried conversation. It would be so easy just to lean in that last inch and kiss her, mid-word. It would be _terribly_ romantic, with his breath smelling like egg rolls and still covered in the work-like smell of printer ink and bad coffee. But he wanted to. _God_, he wanted to.

He managed to pull himself away and stand up.

"Where are you going?"

Did she almost sound _disappointed?_

No. Surely not.

"Shower," he explained. "Go on, you! Get packing!"

She bounded into her room, smile emblazoned across her face. He contemplated it as he stepped into the shower. Nice, bright... her teeth were good now, too. Her smile was quite beautiful actually, when she meant it.

"Draco!" he suddenly heard her bellow through the bathroom door.

Hearing the urgency in her voice, he wrenched at the shower taps and leapt for the door, hastily wrapping a towel around his waist on the way.

"What? What's the matter?"

She wasn't there anymore. Instead, her voice carried from the living room, crying, "Get your ass here!"

When he skidded into the room, she was sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the television. "Come here!" she called at him. "Look!"

Seeing the situation wasn't as dire as he had assumed, he took a moment to knot the towel around his waist a little more securely, before he trotted over to join Hermione on the couch.

It was a news program, the one wizarding cable channel that had been created since the war, and the uptight anchorman was speaking in the midst of saying, "And over to our gossip correspondent, Rita Skeeter, who reports live from the Weasley-Parkinson wedding at the Chapel of St Alban."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he murmured under his breath.

The screen switched to a shot of Rita Skeeter, in all her blonde, frosted glory, standing in front of a barn. Her green quill was stuck in her hair, as a sort of strange decoration, and she was obviously dressed in her best hideous suit as she leered at the camera.

"Yes, thanks Steve! I'm here in the church in Ottery St Catchpole, where the newlywed couple of Ronald Weasley and Pansy Parkinson are due out any second."

He glanced across at Hermione, whose fingers were clutching particularly tightly onto the pillow in her lap. She didn't remove her eyes from the screen, but he could see that she was tuning out. Her eyes glazed over and unfocused, and though she was looking at the television, she was in a completely different place.

Extending a hand towards her, he tried to reach for the remote to turn it off. He was too late to miss the eruption of people from the church doors. At the front, his own ex-girlfriend in a billowing white dress, and Weasley, whose bruises had seemed to fade.

Hermione got to the remote first. The screen paused mid-movement, halted on a picture on the happy procession.

Silence.

"Hermione-"

"No."

"Okay."

He could wait, a little, but not for long. They needed to talk about this. He needed to know that she wasn't going to go throw herself off the fire escape or something.

He left his hand outstretched on her leg, just in case she felt like it in the near future, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Oh, for the love of God.

Her fingers brushed against the palm of his hand before she grasped it as tight as she could.

Would she want to meet his eyes? He doubted it. From what he'd gathered of her character and noticed of her face, he was _fairly_ sure that she didn't want the emotion she always secreted through her eyes to be seen. So he looked down, and said, "Leave early?"

"Bless you," she murmured.

Suddenly, her eyes lifted to his bare chest. She gasped.

Yay! Did _Adam_ have that effect on her?

'Course, he _did_ have the advantage of being half-naked and still dripping wet. He felt proud of his part in restoring Hermione to normalcy, actually. He was helping out the entire universe, by allowing Hermione to view his fantastic body and distract her from imploding.

"I'm going to go dress," he announced, standing up and tightening the towel.

"Okay... you do that."

He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet. "You could pack," he suggested. "We'll leave as soon as possible."

"Okay," she whispered.

He ran off to the bathroom to rinse the shampoo from his hair and to get dressed. He was in the process of throwing his towel into the hamper when Hermione screeched for him again.

"What is it now?" he asked, pretending to be exasperated.

She was sitting on the couch again, looking horrified. A shaking finger was raised to point at a figure on the screen. Draco stepped closer to identify whoever she was referring to. The man was short, stout, and dressed in a black cloak. The facial hair blurred his features, but he recognised him in an instant. Of course he did; the man had been one of the dozens who always used to visit Malfoy Manor on 'official business'.

"Good God..." Hermione breathed, shifting to the edge of her seat in order to get a better look at the pictures on the screen.

Recognising a tall dark man in the background, who looked rather depressed as he threw confetti in the air, Draco stated calmly, "Stevens."

"He was at the Ministry of Magic," Hermione said suddenly, jabbing her finger at another figure, standing by Molly Weasley.

"Hill, Macintosh, Clyde," Draco rattled off.

There were _Death Eaters_ at the wedding.

"How is Harry not recognising these people?" demanded Hermione, leaping to her feet and twirling her wand around her head. A foggy mist poured out of it, materialising in front of them and turning rapidly to clear transparency. "Harry," she said urgently, "get everyone out of there."

A pair of lips came into focus on the clear plate of mist, puckering as if to take a drink. Suddenly, they stopped, and Potter's entire confused face became visible.

"_Hermione?_"

"Hermione?" came a faint voice from the background. "Oh, hi there! What's she doing in your wine glass, Harry?"

Ginny came into the picture, and they both stared out at Hermione.

"Read a book," Hermione snapped. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you? How can you not notice that you're _surrounded_ by Death Eaters?"

"Excuse me?"

Ginny looked vaguely offended, glancing around at the members of her family.

"Not _them_," Draco interrupted, feeling the need to cut this chit chat short before the Death Eaters opened fire. "_Pansy's_ guests."

"Hermione," Potter said seriously, completely ignoring Draco and instead putting on his stubborn negotiation face. "These people renounced Voldemort _years_ ago, and they're under constant monitoring. Besides, Pansy wanted them there; what could we do?"

"_You're in the presence of known Death Eaters!_" shrieked Hermione all of a sudden, clutching furiously at the pillow. "How can you just _sit_ there?"

Struggling to keep in control, Potter said, "Hermione, they're on magical probation. They don't have wands. There's a full security detail. It's under control, okay?"

With a vicious swipe of her wand, Hermione conjured away the screen of visibility, and stormed into her bedroom. The door slammed, and Draco considered gloomily that their weekend plans were probably off now.

She emerged minutes later, dragging a small suitcase behind her and trying to jam her arm into one of the sleeves of her coat.

"Come on," she said wearily, holding out her hand. "We need to get away from here."

Sitting on the ferry hours later, in the pitch black with the cold wind whipping through their unruly hair, it was easy to forget about the wedding, and the fact that their respective exes had both moved well and truly on, and that there had been evil piles of sludge attending their ceremony. It was easy to forget about work, and his lack of a wand, and his creepy boss and the supermarket bitch and Hermione's boyfriend. It was easy to wrap an arm around Hermione, under the pretence of keeping her warm, and look forward to the weekend ahead.


	22. A Trip to the Countryside

_Chapter 22_

_A Trip to the Countryside_

It was dark, early in the morning. The sun hadn't yet chosen to grace them with its presence, and Draco was _severely_ cursing it for denying him the opportunity to watch Hermione as she slept on the train. As it was, all he could do with such little light was to try and arrange himself as a more comfortable mattress for the girl.

She had lasted all the way through the ferry ride, but as soon as they had hit the train, she had abandoned her sea sickness and given over to utter lethargy instead. Quickly progressing to falling dead asleep, she had slumped over his upper half, using one of his pectoral muscles as a pillow.

They were in more or less the same position now. He had adjusted slightly, so that his back was pressed again the window so she was at less of a right angle, but the basic aspects still remained. Her hand still rested against his chest, occasionally twitching or moving slightly as she slept. Her cheek was still pressed against the place where shirt was loose enough to gape down. Her hair still tickled his neck if either of them moved.

And, more importantly, he was _still_ being driven insane by how very close she was, how intimately nauseating the moment was. How was it that over his twenty years of womanizing, he had never managed to conjure up such a moment of intimacy as when his romantically-involved-with-someone-who-wasn't-him _roommate_ fell asleep with him on a train? It was, among other things, a dramatic blow to his already-humbled ego.

As absolutely _thrilled_ as he was for Hermione's relationship, and as utterly _devoted_ he felt to the snivelling weasel who was the other half of that unfortunate pairing, he was getting tired of this. He hated sitting around, waiting for their irritatingly persistent relationship to flounder and sink, his shoulder getting tired of waiting for her to cry on it. It was times like this, when it surprised him that he and Hermione weren't together, when they managed to conjure up that crazy intimacy that seemed to make a relationship inevitable... How could two people who were like that around one another, so relaxed and calm and different,_ not_ have a relationship? It confounded him, and this was generally the type of thing that was crystal clear to him.

Perhaps it was one sided. Perhaps all _she_ saw in the moment was falling asleep with a friend. Perhaps that had happened daily with Potter and Weasley. Perhaps the things that _he_ viewed as having a romantic connotation were seen by her as just 'friend stuff'.

He was working himself into a fit, thinking about all of these 'what if's. Wouldn't it be better if he just luxuriated in the weekend while it lasted?

Or, alternatively, he could hire someone to knock off Dr. Adam, and then his luxuriating could be done naked. Do assassins take I.O.U.s? Or coupons?

Hermione yawned in her sleep, and her hand stretched up to brush against his neck. At first he thought it was a mistake, an accident performed in her unconsciousness, but then it happened again. Her hand settled on his cheek, and he felt the pad of her thumb run along the line of his jaw. He froze, both in shock and also because he didn't want any sudden movement to put her off whatever she was doing. He wanted to preserve her touch.

He half-expected her to sit up, look him in the eyes, and inform him that she was secretly in love with him and Adam was actually gay. But she didn't. Her mouth puckered a little, and she pulled in a deep breath, before her arm went limp and returned to its casual position on his chest. She wriggled a little, apparently uncomfortable with the train seats she was stretched out over, and then returned to the deeply breathing, clearly asleep state she had been in before.

Strange. Unbearably teasing. He never wanted it to end.

On the other hand, he didn't know how long he could continue like this, standing idly by as Hermione enjoyed her perfect relationship with her perfect boyfriend. He couldn't keep compressing his feelings into that hard knot of grief that now lived comfortably in his stomach. He couldn't keep having these marvellous moments with her, knowing that she didn't care at all. He just... couldn't.

He would try to last through this weekend, and he would succeed, because it wasn't hard when it was just the two of them. It was just when the thought came into his head of the boyfriend she'd left back in London that the monster in his gut started to swell and growl again.

"Draco?" she mumbled, her hand inadvertently stretching up to rest on his cheek again. She patted it, eyes still shut, as if using her fingertips to tell whether she was lying against the same guy she'd fallen asleep with.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said, smiling at the look on her face. He'd never really seen Hermione when she'd just woken up; she was always either locked in her own bedroom or up and at 'em _hours_ before he was. She swiped hair away from her eyes and peered up at him, looking bewildered.

"Train," she remarked, sitting slowly to stare confusedly out the windows.

"My, someone's intelligent first thing in the morning," he teased. "How about breakfast?" He displayed to her the contents of his jacket, a sea of plastic and foil wrappers in the most lurid colours imaginable: one of everything from the vending machine. He had bribed a charming young stewardess so that he wouldn't have to disturb Hermione getting up.

"What is _that?_" Hermione asked, eyeing an orange packet that he had been too afraid to open, for fear of Hermione awaking to his cheese-nip breath.

"Something full of powdery, artificial cheese-y nutrients!" he supplied helpfully, cracking open the packet and offering it to her. She declined, and instead went for a fluoro pink power bar, which she promptly spat back into the wrapper.

"Bad?"

"Oh yeah."

He shot it towards the bin, having perfected his bin-aim with scrunched sheets of paper at the office. "And... he _scores! _I'm _officially_ the best bin-thrower, in the world. I am the _champion_ of throwing stuff in bins."

"I wouldn't say that too loudly, if I were you," Hermione advised, grinning at him. "So, is there coffee on this thing?"

"Oh, of course." He signalled to the stewardess, who carried over a tray containing a pot of coffee, tea, and a delicate vase of flowers. Hermione's mouth seemed to be watering at the smell of the bitter coffee, judging from the expression on her face. Though the scent and taste repelled Draco, he couldn't help but praise the substance for provoking such a reaction on her face. She was beautiful when she was longing for something. If only _he_ could inspire that expression on her face.

It took the two of them about seven minutes to work through the mountain of processed snack foods that were cradled in Draco's jacket. Draco tended to favour the chocolate, artificial cheese, or combination foods, while Hermione went for the muffin bars and the dried fruit bits.

"Life must be so good for you," Hermione said, mid chew, "to be able to eat whatever you want and remain your perfect-figured self."

He allowed a smile to play over his lips before he tilted his head. "You think I'm perfect?"

She choked on her mouthful of muesli bar, and her pale skin rapidly went beet red. "No," she stuttered, "That's... that's not what I... meant. I meant your _figure, _because you're like... you're so skinny but still muscled-"

With a self satisfied expression on his face, he settled back into his seat and poured himself another cup of tea.

"Stop that! You _know_ I didn't mean-"

"Okay, Hermione, if that's how you really feel."

She scowled. "What are we, two? I can't say you look good? You _know_ you do; stop being annoying!"

He took a few moments to savour her anger, before he carefully replaced the china tea cup in its saucer and inquired, "I look good?"

With a screech of frustration, she poked the tip of her wand out of her sleeve, and sent a sizzling bolt of invisible force at the tea cup he had been adjusting. It toppled into his lap, burning and scorching and, more embarrassingly, settling in a steaming puddle on his crotch.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, cursing a brick of ice onto his pain, causing almost as much agony as the original tea.

"_I'll_ do that, thanks," he gasped, snatching her wand and conjuring the pain and the ice brick away. When he tried to dry his pants, though, he found the damp patch immovable.

"You're a sneaky broad, Hermione Granger," he informed her, passing back her wand. "And I'll play along, but I'll expect that fixed before we have to go out in public."

"Deal," she said, with a small smile that continued to grace her lips until the horn blew, the conductor yelled, and the train pulled to a heaving halt at the station.

Just as they were about to step onto the platform, a small bolt of warm air hit Draco's crotch, both startling him and making the tea stain disappear.

"Thank you," he said, bowing low and gesturing for her to step off the train first. She waited by the door of the terminal while he collected the luggage – since he was feeling manly and strong today. When he arrived, a black town car skidded to a screeching halt in front of them. The window rolled down to reveal a sunglass-wearing driver with a rock the size of Neptune around his neck.

"_Bonjour_, Draco, my man," said the driver.

"Jeeves! Why, it's a pleasure, as always."

He helped Hermione into the car, ignoring the stunned look on her face.

"Blaise's French driver," he murmured into her ear as he climbed in after her. "Don't worry. I've met him about two dozen times, and about five of those times, he's been passed out and naked."

"Wasn't worried," Hermione sniffed, but the relaxation of those tell-tale lines on her forehead suggested that her worry of being kidnapped had been appeased.

The journey to Blaise's manor was long and windy, along the deserted road to the small country village outside of which Blaise had built his house. Draco knew this road well, having travelled it more times than he could count, but Hermione spent the entire trip with her face glued to the window, observing every detail that her eyes possibly could.

Once, the car jolted over a small pothole, and Hermione jumped and instinctively reached for his hand. Though the same action probably would have occurred regardless of who was in the car with her, the idea that maybe it was just him was vaguely gratifying. Gratifying enough, that is, for him to superglue that big smile of his across his face for the rest of the car ride.

When the town car pulled up with a skid of purple dust – Blaise had gotten creative with the long driveway leading up to the manor – and the door snapped open for them, the expression of wonder on Hermione's face was enough to make him forget that he had been in the process of climbing out of the car. He stood hunched, one foot in, one foot out, eyes on Hermione, who stood with a suitcase in one hand and a bookbag over her shoulder, gazing up at the four story house. Vines crawled over the cream exterior, and he saw by the constant flickering of her eyes that she hadn't failed to notice the swimming pool on the roof.

"What do you think?" he asked, when he had finally regained his senses and come up behind her.

"I think... it looks perfect."

She turned around, only to be startled by the raspberry beret that he pulled onto her head. With a smile as thanks, she took a step towards the house, but he caught her by her elbows and pulled her back to face him.

"One second," he breathed, adjusting the beret on her head. She stood stock still, not moving an inch, except for when his thumb grazed over her cheek and she let out an involuntary laugh.

"Sorry, tickles," she laughed. "Are you done?"

He appraised the final product – a Hermione who looked very much at home in the country – and finally nodded.

She placed her hand over where his rested on her shoulder, holding it there for countless extra seconds as their eyes contacted with a sizzling bolt of something like romantic tension. When their gazes grew intense, she slowly pulled his hand off her shoulder, intertwining her fingers with his as it fell to their sides.

"Then let's go," she said, her enthusiasm of a minute before calmed and transformed into soft regret. She took a step towards the house, and glanced back at Draco. With a resigned sigh that he tried to make melodramatic and playful, he withdrew a large bronze key from his pocket, and slipped it into Hermione's free hand, the one that wasn't grasping onto his. She dashed over to the door, dragging him with her, to unlock the door.

If moments like this kept happening, how would he spend an entire weekend, pretending to be Hermione's 'friend' when he was really in love with her?


	23. C'est la Vie

_Chapter 23_

_C'est la Vie_

When they walked into Blaise's house, still hand in hand, the entire building was silent. The house was large, decorated in Blaise's fanciful, 'let's demonstrate how wealthy I am' style, while still managing to retain the air of a rustic country villa, with the aid of a few scattered items - a tin chicken, a basket of fresh eggs on the table, the smell of warm bread wafting through the house - that lay haphazardly around. The overpowering scent, though, was that of Blaise's favourite cologne, seeping out from under closed doors and through curtained doorways.

"I guess there's no doubt we got the right house," Hermione observed, sniffing gingerly at the pungent air in the entrance room, a cosily crowded room, stuffed to the walls with mismatched sofas.

"_Reeks_ of Blaise... and I do mean _reeks,_" Draco agreed, placing Hermione's suitcase - tattered and worn - down on the polished wooden floor, resinous with the scent of fresh wax. There in the doorway of the house, gazing up at the spiralling wooden staircase and the sliver of purple cushions they could see through a cracked door, Draco felt Hermione's hand tighten around his own. Not as a sign of fear or shock or comfort, but as a casual acknowledgement, a little 'hello, there' that made him feel so connected and close to her that it took a moment of restraint and another to compose himself before he could squeeze back.

"So..." He, without separating their bonded fingers, took a few steps towards the staircase. "Bedrooms are upstairs. Scattered all throughout, really. I suppose we just... make our way to the one - two, I mean, sorry - of our choice." He tried to cover up his mistake by changing the topic, but only succeeded in drawing attention to it with his fast pace and rapid stumbling over words. "Strange that Blaise didn't leave a note, or a fifty page letter instructing us not to go through his underwear drawer."

Hermione took pity on him, and snapped her fingers playfully. "There goes _that_ plan, then." He noticed, though, that she didn't remove her hand from his, but used it to pull him over to the other corner of the room. There was an archway that opened into a large sitting room, bursting with the fresh morning sunlight that was streaming through a large gabled window. Hermione's eyes crept over the wall of books, tripping over those she had read and savouring the be-titled spines of those she hadn't with an air of distinct awe.

"I know." He agreed with her unspoken sentiment. "The day _I_ learned he can read? _Blew my mind_."

She slapped him teasingly across the chest, and stepped out of the room with a longing backwards glance.

"You've got all weekend," he reminded her with a slight smile. He was trying desperately not to display just how potent was the effect of her antics on him, though it was seeming a more hopeless task with each passing moment. When she turned around, arching her neck to peer backwards into the reading room, he had difficulty in playing the 'amused yet unaffected' friend, and controlling to urge to stop and stare at her in wonder.

"So," he continued quickly, as she turned her head inquisitively towards him, "I guess we just head on up, then. I've been here before, obviously, and I can tell you that there's a hexagonal-shaped bedroom on the fourth floor with a library that should impress even you."

He expected her to break away from him and run up the stairs as fast as her little legs could carry her, but instead, she strolled on a few steps and asked, "Show me?"

"With pleasure," he replied truthfully, swiping aside a life-sized portrait of Blaise, the subject of which was trying very hard to remain still, and failing miserably. The wine in his glass sloshed out when he slipped from the awkward position he had been posing in, and he slurped it up with a pessimistic sigh.

"Nice to see you again, blonde one," the portrait greeted him, inclining an eyebrow curiously. "Who's the skirt?"

"Hermione Granger, and I'd keep the curse words to a minimum. You're in the presence of a lady, remember."

The portrait ran a finger along its exaggerated facial hair. "I _see._ This is _Hermione Granger,_ the one and only. How d'ye do, m'dear? I've heard a lot about you."

"It's so strange to be introduced to a portrait of a man I've known for years," Hermione whispered, but spoke to the portrait with a confidence that contradicted her previous statement. "Hello, there. Your... image-sake... is a good friend of mine."

"Nicely done, wordsmith," Draco teased, lifting up the portrait without giving its occupant a moment of warning, to reveal the elevator that had been hidden behind the canvas. In response to the shock on Hermione's face, he said, "Oh, come on... you didn't _really_ think I would force you to walk up and down five flights of stairs all weekend? You don't have a very high opinion of me, do you?"

She stepped into the elevator with a vague pinkness sprinkled across her cheeks, provoking him to step in behind her, wrapping his arms around her from behind before he had even realised the impulse that seized him. To his surprise, though, all she did was bring one hand up to hold his wrist, which had ended up across her chest, before she laughed exuberantly and announced, "Okay, you're going to have to show me all the other secrets in this place. You can't just keep whipping them out and impressing me!"

After a moment of smug musing, he asked, letting his satisfaction tint his tone, "I'm impressing you?"

"That's not what I meant," she denied, sounding flustered. When all he did was laugh, she snapped, "Oh, just _shut up!_"

He tried, sincerely tried, not to let further laughter spill from his lips, but a few drops of it couldn't help dripping out before he stifled his face with his hands.

Before the elevator had alighted at the fourth level, he was in stitches, and Hermione was bemused, but unable to help from catching his infectious laughter.

"So," she tried to get out, obviously attempting to change the subject and make him stop laughing - _with_ her, not _at_ her - "Why the elevator?"

"The butler conjured it in, I think. Blaise doesn't know it exists. How do you think he got those legs of his?"

"The _stairs_," Hermione said knowingly, finally catching onto the fact that Blaise had never and _would_ never step foot into a gym, unless it was frequented by hot, exotic prostitutes and didn't require him to move out of his room.

Surely, though, that could be arranged.

Actually, apart from the whole 'gym' thing, that pretty much _was_ Blaise's bedroom.

Draco led Hermione into the bedroom he had promised, which was set slightly apart from the rest of the house, a little addition tacked on at the back of the original building. It had six walls, each painted in a placid off white, with the apex of the ceiling made of glass to reveal the sun, shining almost directly overhead.

"A skylight!" Hermione exclaimed, taking a few steps into the room so she could peer out of the glass at a better angle. When she was close to one of the walls, though, she was distracted by the room's other attraction. "Oh my God, are these walls-"

"...Paper?" Draco hinted helpfully, as Hermione ran the palm of her hand along the wall. "Yes," he continued, "this is Blaise's 'writing the great English novel' room. So far, he's never had cause to use it. I thought you would fit in here."

"Fit in?" Hermione asked incredulously, walking slowly . "I'm _adopting_ this room."

Casually, he banged his fist on the knot in the wall by the door. One of the walls flipped upside down, to reveal a tall bookshelf, stocked with a variety of books that Blaise would never have heard of, let alone read. In all the years that Draco had been visiting Blaise here, he had taken to making small improvements to make his stay more enjoyable, unbeknownst to Blaise. Some called it rude, Draco called it payback. He still wanted revenge for Blaise installing a marijuana farm under Malfoy Manor a few years ago.

"Heaven," Hermione mumbled, sinking to the floor and dragging at least half a dozen books onto her lap to peruse.

"I'll leave you alone, then." He backed slowly out of the room - Hermione didn't seem to notice - and closed the door behind him. Retreating to his usual room on the third floor, since he had a feeling that staying with Hermione in her room tonight wouldn't be a fabulous idea, he dragged his suitcase to the closet and sat cross-legged on the bed.

It was a dilemma of monumental proportions, the one that was swirling around in the recesses of his mind. On one hand, he wanted to make Hermione feel comfortable, to show her that he could be a supportive friend without wanting anything out of it. On the other hand, he wanted something out of it. On one hand, this was the perfect situation - a romantic getaway to France, alone in a country villa, surrounded by the hills and the sunsets... On the other hand, she was still in a relationship with Adam.

There was only one thing for him and his many hands to do, and that was, to smoke some of Blaise's exotic tobacco that he kept hidden in the toe of his left slipper.

And so, he took the elevator down to the level of Blaise's bedroom, and slid the golden key from beneath the sign that said 'Stay out if you value your entrails' with the caricature of the happy intestines, and used said key to open the double doors.

To his immense, jaw dropping surprise, there was a thick plume of blue smoke seeping from under the door to Blaise's private bathroom suite. Snatching the umbrella with the Blaise-handle and raising it threateningly, he ripped open the door.

Blaise was sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor in his dressing gown, smoking his pipe. He didn't seem at all surprised when Draco swung the umbrella at him, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Draco, dear boy. I see you've settled in rather nicely with Hermione. Didn't I call it?"

Draco smacked Blaise's arm with the umbrella. "What's that? Oh, right, my _heart_ restarting. You're meant to be in _Hawaii, _man!"

Blowing a puff of smoke out the side of his mouth, Blaise replied, "On my way, as we speak. Would you care for a pipe?"

"No, but thanks all the same. I'd rather Hermione not die of passive smoke inhalation. Now, _what_ are you doing here?"

"I postponed my trip until you arrived, so that I could observe, deduce, and tell you what a bleeding imbecile you're being."

"Oh. So what else is new?"

Resignedly - since Blaise generally seemed to know what he was talking about when it came to almost anything involving other people - Draco sat down on the purple bath mat beside the tub. After Draco had declined Blaise's pipe a few more times, and prompted him to get on with it, Blaise cleared his throat, and announced, "You're in love with Hermione."

"Shh!" Draco hissed. "She's _in_ the house, you know!"

Waving a casual hand, Blaise responded, "She'll be playing with the books for _hours._ And, I've got to say..." Rather than express his feelings with words, Blaise lifted a hand and flicked Draco in the forehead.

"Ouch!" As he recoiled from the pain, Draco slapped a hand to his forehead and glared at Blaise. "What was that for? What have I done?"

Blaise fixed him with a penetrating stare, and then hovered to his feet. "Don't break her heart," he warned offhandedly, by the door, "or I'll be forced to break those pretty teeth of yours." With that, he levitated his sky blue suitcase and walked out the bathroom door. "I'll be in touch. Remember. Try not to be too obvious."

Blaise disappeared, in a puff of spicy smoke and a tiny, almost inaudible _pop_ as the space that his muscled matter had occupied was replaced with a pocket of air. With a sigh, Draco headed for the door as well. The allure of his tobacco was already gone, saturating Blaise's bedroom and seeping into his bedclothes. The smoke was stale, now, and hardly held the prospect of sharpening his mind and perspective. With Blaise's counsel as ambiguous as his strange appearance, Draco was left even more perplexed than before.

That is, until he opened Blaise's bedroom doors to find Hermione, bursting through just as he had been about to make his way out.

"Draco!" she exclaimed, trying to pull up short before she slammed into his chest. She failed, but he took pains to secure her body upright before he moved out of her way. Instead of moving, she paused, and sniffed the air. "You found Blaise's stash?"

"Actually, I found Blaise."

Hermione frowned, and opened her mouth to question his comment. She was interrupted, though, by his skilled tactical manoeuvre which prompted him to drag her out of Blaise's smoky bedroom and into his own.

"So, tonight," he began. "Eat here or out?"

She took a moment to survey him. He got the feeling that her eyes, boring into him like drills, were reading every inside out, backwards thought within his body.

"Here," she answered slowly, as if she was savouring the word and watching for the effect it would have on him.

Of course, images of candlelit dinners, romantic and rose-petalled, flashed across his mind faster than he realised his brain could process, and before he'd had a chance to tell his mind off for proving her right.

She looked smug, for a brief moment, before her face relaxed and her body curled in a ball on his bedspread. "So, I was thinking spaghetti?"

"Oh, come on... you can't come to France and not eat escargot!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You want to eat snails?"

Snails? Escargot? One and the same? No _way._

"That's disgusting," Draco said, swallowing, as if to use his saliva to claw the slimy feeling from the walls of his throat. "Okay, okay. Spaghetti it is."

"Super." She acquired an expression that suggested that she was about to jump into action, chopping and simmering and stirring, but the next moment she relaxed her facial muscles and inquired archly, "Would you like to help?"

Him, the kitchen disaster whirlwind in a handy blonde package, _helping_ in the kitchen? The last time they'd tried that, it hadn't ended well, thus his permanent demotion to music selector. Here was Hermione, actually _inviting_ him to aid her in the preparation of food they actually had to eat?

_Everything_ was topsy turvy today.

An hour later, he was in the kitchen, wearing Blaise's apron, with Hermione standing unbearably close to him. Her mouth was an inch from his ear, laughing and chatting as she placed her hands over his own and demonstrated how to chop the mushrooms. Her arms had snaked around his waist, casually, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, and she had slid her fingers along his and squeezed with the tiniest ounce of pressure, to tighten his hand around the handle of the knife. Had it been his longing, desperate imagination, or had her fingers slipped between his for a moment?

The steady stream of conversation from her lips did not pause in its flow, but seemed to increase to a level that suggested that she was trying to distract him.

It wasn't going to work.

All of the feelings inside of him - those crazy hormones he didn't like to admit he possessed, because hormones were _so_ five years ago - had been compressed, until now. He had been able to refrain from sharing them, shouting them from the nearest convenient rooftop, because he had known that she felt differently, that she had a boyfriend.

Now, though? He couldn't ignore the little action, even if it had been in his imagination. He couldn't bring himself to.

His breaths were shallow, in and out with a speed that surprisingly didn't rouse her suspicion. He had to fight the urge, because, even from a logical standpoint, proclaiming his feelings for Hermione would be one of his stupidest actions yet. He didn't want to ruin their friendship, he didn't want to jeopardise his living situation, and more selfishly, he didn't want to spoil any possible chance they might have in the future.

Yes, the future. He had to concentrate on that - on the idea that one day, at least, he would be able to stop holding back, to let it out - so as to distract him from the urge to tell her now.

It was difficult for even him to understand why he wanted to tell her so badly. He felt as though his lungs were balloons, filled to breaking point with nothing but hot air, and that he just wanted the balloons to pop, already, so he could breathe deeply and get on with life. Get on with life. Get on with life without Hermione? Not likely.

For once, he had to go against his natural grain. He had been bred to be selfish, to care only for him, his parents, and the Dark Lord. One was dead, two were permanently _persona non grata_ in his life, and the remaining one was trying desperately to care for someone else.

His fingers flexed, and then relaxed on the cool handle of the knife. Relaxed so much, in fact, that it slid from his fingers, falling to the chopping board amidst the capsicum and mushrooms, with a startling clatter.

Hermione didn't start at the sound. He could feel her body, pressed flush against his back. She had gotten closer, during his internal monologue, and he couldn't place a reason for it.

Her left hand was resting on the corner of the counter, only inches in front of his belt, and he watched her knuckles whiten on the marble.

Every action seemed to take minutes rather than seconds, and the calm, ephemeral peace caught him off guard. He had more than enough time to observe the spread of colour back into her fingers when she released the edge of the counter, to read every fine line emphasised in her knuckles, before her hand came to settle on his hip.

It very near killed him that he couldn't see her face. He wanted to be facing her, so that he could read her expressive eyes and tell what she was really thinking. He wanted to _see_ the shock on her face, the startled 'o' of her mouth, rather than just sense it from his position, facing away from her.

He couldn't. That would make it too hard.

Her right hand still lay on top of his, stationary, but when he slowly flipped his hand so that his palm faced upwards, she wasted no time in sliding their fingers together, intertwining them like vines.

The position they had found themselves brimmed with tension - silent, immobile tension - that was pulled as tightly as a thick elastic band, at the point where it cannot bend or stretch anymore. It has no choice, but to snap.

He didn't want this to snap. That would mean that he would be revoking the promise he had made to himself, and it would mean that whatever happened, it would have to end soon. Couldn't they just stand like this forever?

But the elastic band of his self control was not invincible, and the threads began to fray.

He placed his own left hand over hers, enclosing it and holding it in place. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned around to face her.

The initial sight of her face caught him, body and soul, by complete and utter surprise. He expected shock, a little horror, perhaps some reluctance. Instead, he found her eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering, and a sweet expression of careful anticipation on her face.

She wanted this, just like he did.

He didn't move, trying to capture this moment for a little while longer. Not understanding the reason for his lack of action, Hermione opened her eyes inquisitively. There was a faint frown in her eyes, a few small creases of annoyance on her forehead.

'_Kiss me already_,' she seemed to be saying.

When their eyes met, he snapped, in a very different way.

They were scrabbling at one another's clothing before their lips even touched. Retaining the intense eye contact, she worked her fingers inside the hem of his shirt, warm hands splayed on his stomach and chest. He was trying to figure out her top, blasted thing, but gave up hastily and moved one hand from her shoulder to her cheek. Cupping it in the palm of his hand, he leant down, trying to instil the moment with the slow romanticism it deserves, but Hermione reached up and pressed her lips to his.

The fire was there, as it had been the last time, but this flaming buzz wasn't from a bottle and a half of straight Firewhiskey. Her mouth was warm, and he almost lost himself in the way her lips felt, the way her tongue ran along his own bottom lip and snuck into his mouth. One of her hands clenched in his hair, and he had to say, the sensation wasn't at all unpleasant. He caressed her arm with his thumb as she drove him back against the counter, and he looped his arm around her neck as she ran her hand down his chest.

And then, at the worst possible time, the stove caught on fire.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye, a bright burst of flame from the bubbling saucepan. Hermione's mouth was still on his when he exclaimed, "Oh, shit!"

Without any ado, she released herself from his grasp - and the loss of her warm body in his arms wrenched at somewhere deep inside of him - and turned off the stove, throwing a towel over the handle and a lid over the flame.

The fire was out, but the spark was gone. Draco didn't want to meet her eyes, so he ducked his head and busied himself with moving the chopping board away from the smoking stove. Hermione didn't object to this sudden separation, so different from their position mere seconds ago, and forced out a harsh sentence through quivering lips. "You know, you don't have to stay. Probably better if I cook alone."

He took her advice, and retreated, trying to ignore the images in his head even as he knew that they would be emblazoned across the inside of his skull as soon as he closed his eyes.


	24. A Solution

_Chapter 24_

_A Solution_

It was with a heavy heart and a spoilt appetite that Draco threw himself down onto his bed with a frustrated groan. He could still taste her on his lips.

His tongue ran over his bottom lip, almost out of a habit so quickly acquired, as he rolled onto his back on the monstrous bed. The ceiling seemed blinding, like it was dripping vitriol into his open eyes, but he couldn't close them. If he did, he knew what would happen. The tiny thumbnail slideshow that was flitting back and forth in the corner of his mind would suddenly expand into full screen, and he wouldn't be able to escape from the images.

He could see it so clearly anyway, even with his eyes fixed on the ceiling above. He saw Hermione's face, growing as it approached, even though the action itself had been miniscule and lightning fast. He could _feel_ the heat of her lips, the way they had smudged against his lightly, and then hard, hard enough to evoke passion and something a little unfamiliar.

What had he done? How had the little pep talk he'd given himself, mere seconds before throwing down and ignoring any semblance of intelligence he possessed, gone so unnoticed? He had _reasoned_ with himself, in strictly logical terms, and laid down a handful of valid reasons as to the _awfulness_ that an action like that would incur. _How_ had his brain managed to screw up so badly this time?

He had to relax, and he had to fix this. The only question was... well, how the hell was he supposed to do that? They had _kissed._ It hadn't just been a little friendly peck, or a drunken tongue session. It had been a fully sober, remarkably consensual, up-against-the-counter, pulling-at-each-other's-clothing kiss, and they couldn't just brush it off.

What did this mean for them? Did he move out? Did they cease all contact? No. There was no way that he was letting such a dominant part of his life go that easily. But what, then? He couldn't go to her, kiss her the way he longed to, and beg for her to leave Adam, to sacrifice her well-adjusted life of security and embark on something less predictable but infinitely more exciting with him... could he?

Or did he go to her and beg to ignore it, to forget it had ever happened, to go back to the agonising silence and the desperate appreciation of every platonic touch? That was his best option, and yet, the most painful.

Still. Wasn't love about making sacrifices, or some such nonsense? He was willing to sacrifice that selfish little part within him that begged him to go to her now. He could stand being in a little bit of extraordinary pain every day, just so long as he and Hermione went back to the way they were supposed to be.

He would have to make an effort, because he needed this to work. Not just the living situation, not just that he had nowhere else to go, because he was fairly sure that Mallory would put him up on her couch if need be. Because he was, aside from falling for Hermione, finally settling into somewhere that felt like _home._

The tarnished door handle seemed to grow about tenfold as he stared at it. It begged to be wrenched open, for him to use it to throw open the door and stride through it and tell Hermione in no uncertain terms that he was sorry, that it had been a mistake, that he would implode if she didn't forgive him. It sprouted a whiney little voice and urged him out loud.

So he did, just as Hermione was raising her fist to knock.

"Jeez," she said, falling back into the hallway with the shock of his door springing open.

"We've really got to stop meeting like this," he joked, trying to lighten the mood but only proving to intensify the awkwardness with the catch in his voice.

"Draco, I-"

"You know, Hermione," he suggested, trying to pull of his most casual, unaffected voice. "I was thinking about... you know... and it was wrong of me. I was thinking, I should probably leave."

_Leave?_ Where had _that_ come from?

The tiny, manipulative portion of his brain swelled in guilty pride, and he realised what he wanted, what his mind was subconsciously trying to achieve, with or without his consent.

It worked, as perfectly as if he'd put more than a nanosecond or two of unconscious thought into it.

"Leave?" Hermione's head jerked up. She had been studying her bare feet - shivering and small - with an intensity he hadn't expected, but on hearing his words, her eyes snapped up to meet his. "You don't have to... _leave._ Wait, leave _here_, or leave _home?_"

They were penetrating and bright, her eyes, as they waited for an explanation.

He shrugged, letting his eyes wander past her face, away from those lips, towards the rustic wall treatment with a curious idea as to trying it in the sitting room back at the apartment. He would have to get the name of Blaise's decorator.

"Draco."

His air of noncommittal restraint was working as he had hoped, but he couldn't keep it up. Contrary to popular belief, his acting talent, extraordinary under normal circumstances, suffered when his actual heart came into the equation.

So he had no choice, really, but to let his eyes wander up to meet hers, trying to fog them over with casual inquiry so as to soften the blow - on him or her, he wasn't sure.

When the sizzling sparks - his trying too hard to be cool, hers having too much trouble keeping calm - that their eyes were emitting collided between them, he was overtaken by that insane urge to grab her and bring about a repeat of The Kitchen Incident.

But he couldn't. Could he?

"I don't want you to leave," she offered up in her smallest voice. "We can just... forget it, if you'd prefer."

"Well," he said, choosing his words carefully, "You've got a boyfriend. We're just roomies."

"Yeah. I've got a boyfriend."

The hollow look in her eyes echoed in his mind, long after they had parted ways. He retreated back into his room, and her footsteps padded down the corridor to her own. He lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

His plan had worked. Hermione had taken pity on him, and at the same time, confirmed his suspicion that she liked having him around, maybe had even enjoyed their kiss. Who was he kidding? You don't kick up a ten second snog to a three and a half minute, up against the kitchen counter, hands running everywhere and mouths meeting wildly make out session, if you weren't enjoying yourself in the first place.

He ought to be happy. Hermione had _wanted_ to kiss him.

The fact was, she was prepared to forget it had ever happened and go back to the perfect surgeon whose hair did that flippy thing that his never could anymore. She was perfectly willing to glide over the incident and go back to being friends. Hadn't that been what she had been about to say, when he opened the door on her surprised face? Hadn't he, by jumping in first, saved himself the heartache of actually _hearing_ it, uttered in her most sympathetic tone as she scanned his face for disappointment?

There was a crash from Hermione's room, directly above his own. Something had smashed, with a sprinkling of light shard noises as what sounded like glass fell onto the floor.

He couldn't help himself. What if she'd fallen?

The door to Hermione's room was already open a crack, so it was a bit excessive when he threw his body weight against it, and fell with surprise when it opened easily. He landed on the floor at Hermione's feet, dazed, confused, and bleeding profusely.

"Oh, shit," she muttered, falling to her knees beside him, snatching up his wrist with professional sympathy. Her touch on his arm was enough to make him start, and when her slim fingertips clamped down upon the wound, he shivered.

"Are you cold?" she asked, gazing at him concernedly, with no more emotion than that of a worried nurse.

This accident couldn't have come at a worse time. His moment of vulnerability had presented Hermione with just the event she needed - an opportunity to compartmentalise the warring parts of her brain and focus on stopping the bleeding. He could see it in her eyes, that the emotion that had been there before had snapped out. It was replaced by a clinical calmness that shone out through her face as she fussed over tweezers, picking out the fragments of glass, putting a dressing on the wound...

He caught a glimpse of her wand, sticking out of the waistband of her jeans.

"You could have used your wand," he said weakly, cackling slightly. "Saved us both a lot of pain."

Hermione's gaze dropped, with just a hint of guilt, to the handle of her wand. Whipping it out, fussing about and making a rambling comment, she bustled about his wound, replacing the substandard Muggle cures with something a little more substantial. It _sounded_ as though she was trying to distract his attention. Why, though? It had just been an innocent mistake... hadn't it?

Her thumb brushed against his arm, again inciting a shiver to run rapidly down his spine, as she removed the plaster and jabbed at the wound with her wand. Had he imagined the way her thumb swept across the pale skin of his wrist a moment longer than necessary?

Surely, he must have.

Once the small pile of glass fragments had been gathered and Vanished, and the skin on Draco's wrist had been restored to full, flawless health, he could get down to the reason for his visit in the first place.

"Are _you_ okay?" he asked, sidestepping the remainders of glass that were still embedded in the carpet.

"Of course..." She looked upon him with an expression that suggested she was worried for his mental health. "_You're_ the one who just gashed open his radial artery."

"No, I mean... I heard a noise..."

As if she was a kindly kindergarten teacher tutoring a group of snotty brats, she pointed to the shattered glass on the floor. "Yes, Draco... glass, smash!"

"Very funny, wit," he mumbled, turning for the door. It had become obvious that whatever feeling or lust Hermione had been feeling for them during and immediately after their kiss had been completely obliterated. He couldn't think of a time that he'd cursed his radial artery more.

Rather that make a bigger fool of himself than he'd already managed, he would leave. Give her a bit of time to lust after him, give her some space.

It was only Saturday afternoon. He had all night.

"Draco," her voice called from the floor, where she had been cross-legged and carefully repairing the frame of a photograph. "I didn't mean... You realise I was kidding, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah," he said dismissively, waving the hand that wasn't resting on the doorjamb. "No, it's fine. I'm just going to... go for a bit of a walk. I'll be back in a bit."

It took seven minutes to free his coat from the territorial coat rack down in the lobby, which spat sarcastic comments at him as he tried to wrestle the collar away from its insidious branches. Once he had exited the house, triumphant but irritated, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets, regretting his pigheadedness in deeming Hermione's leather gloves too feminine for his taste. His fingers were paying the cost; the tips were numb.

Sometime during the drama within the house, the bright sun had turned grey and cold. There was a breeze that fluctuated between pleasant and biting, and the airy clouds that had beckoned at the edges of the horizon had crowded together above, darkening in colour and looming threateningly. Taking into consideration the gloomy weather, now probably wasn't the best time for a walk. Taking into account his mood, on the other hand, made a walk both desirable and necessary. He needed to get out of that house, where every object held her scent even when she'd never been near it.

The driveway, though long and winding, didn't occupy his mind for long. He took a few steps into the bare wood, but paused to sit on a fallen log before continuing. He needed to ponder, and he couldn't well strike his pondering pose - fist on the forehead, arm at a careful right angle calculated to show off his muscles, face screwed up with handsome thoughtfulness - standing up, could he?

Letting Hermione cool off wasn't going to be as easy as he had thought, but he would have to, because otherwise he didn't stand even a fragment of a chance. At least, he hoped he had at least that. It felt strange, playing by ear, making all the decisions himself. Throughout his extensive history with members of the fairer sex, he had always had a second opinion, a guiding presence. Even Crabbe and Goyle had been of help, once upon a time. He needed to talk to Blaise.

When they'd been kids, they had devised a method of communication during the holidays when magic was strictly forbidden. They had held a ceremony in the middle of the night, candles a-flickering and voices low and excited, where they had sealed their bond as blood brothers. The scar was still there, faint and white, catching the light.

Now, he was going to utilise that bond.

"Blaise," he whispered, pressing his fingers down hard on his wrist. "Come in, you bone-headed moron."

With a small pop, Blaise Apparated into the woods beside him. He was wearing a robe that billowed open at the front, and half of his face was covered in a gentle powder.

"Gave my makeup artist a right shock, Draco," Blaise said wryly, propping his slippered feet up on a tree stump opposite him and rubbing indignantly at his own wrist. "This better be important."

"Hermione and I made out," Draco informed him, trying to suppress the joy or the fear or the pompous satisfaction.

Blaise displayed all of these emotions on his own face, though, so Draco let them seep back onto his own.

"Wow," he said, a grin cracking onto his face. "That _is_ big."

"It is, right? I'm not just imagining it? This is life-alteringly, ground-breakingly big?"

"Swallowed a thesaurus, Draco? Now, walk me through it. Was it fantastic?"

Shifting uncomfortably on his log, he let out a small smile. "Yeah," he admitted, nodding. "It really was."

"Up against a table?" Blaise asked knowledgeably. "I always thought it would be up against a table... though, if you've soiled my antique Louis XV, I'm going to rip your head off."

"What?" Draco was distracted, by the initial comment rather than the threat. "It was just _kissing_. In the kitchen."

The look on Blaise's face, splashed with surprise before he wiped it clear and regained his composure, told of his expectation. "You mean you _actually_ kissed a girl without then getting into her knickers? My, this is a first."

"Well, Hermione's special." Was that tone in his voice _defensive_? _Really?_ It was just _Blaise,_ being his usual arse-ish self.

"Too right she is," Blaise agreed, redeeming himself immeasurably in Draco's eyes.

His fingers shook as he picked at the hem of his coat. They needed something to do, to stop from turning purple and falling off on him, and to distract him from the expression on Blaise's face.

"So, it was in the kitchen. Hmm. Could have aimed for a more romantic spot, but to each his own. So, what's the problem? The Draco _I_ know, upon getting into the mouth of his dream girl, would be, right at this moment, still occupied in doing so. What the bloody hell are you doing talking to _me_ when you could be _not_ talking to _her_?"

"Because," Draco announced, clearing his throat, "it was a disaster."

"_You_ said it was fantastic," Blaise accused him, with his most put-upon face. "Did you _lie_ to me, Draco?"

The dry leaves, remnant from autumn, crackled beneath his feet as he shifted in his seat. This conversation - the explaining, the justifying - was making him uncomfortable. He wanted to get to the bit where Blaise shared his wisdom.

To get there, though, he had to finish his story. It came out, in a rush of diarrhoea-like rambling. "See, it was all going fine - _better_ than fine - until the stove caught fire and we broke apart and we both ran away and then she came to the door and I jumped in and said we ought to forget about it and go back to being friends but then something happened upstairs and I ran up and tripped on the glass and it was _spurting_ blood - you should have seen it - and she tended to me, all maternal-like, and I could see that the nervous little spark in her eyes had vanished and she was just... Hermione again."

His lungs cried out for air, which he readily supplied to them in the form of a deep, gasping breath.

Blaise's smirking face had been wiped and replaced with a stunned, sympathetic expression.

"You _do_ realise," he said, standing up and pacing back and forth before Draco, "that in that entire little soliloquy you didn't mention her tits once?"

"Shut up," Draco snapped in response. "I'm going through emotional turmoil, here, or hadn't you noticed?"

"All right, all right," Blaise held up his hands in surrender. "Dr Blaise is in the house."

Finally, the part he'd been waiting for.

Blaise raised one manicured hand to stroke his smooth chin, and announced, "I think... you're in love with her."

"No, _really_?" snapped Draco. "I hadn't noticed!"

"_Someone's_ touchy," Blaise responded, not even pausing at his insult. "All right... I think you love her, but you don't want to screw things up. Plus, she's got a boyfriend."

"And don't I know it," Draco muttered under his breath. It rolled out of his mouth in a cloud of mist, and he suddenly wished he'd remembered a scarf. "So, what now? Do I avoid her? Give her time?"

"What you need to do," Blaise advised, in a flash of brilliance, "isn't to give her space... you need to _deprive _her of it. Show up _everywhere,_ be there _all the time._ She likes you, that much is obvious-"

It took Draco a moment to get over the ingeniousness of what Blaise had said, before he took notice of his last sentence and jumped to his feet. "Obvious? _Obvious?_ Thanks for telling me, you sodding lump of-"

"Hush." Blaise made a mouth with his fingers and abruptly closed it. "Did you want my advice or not, moron?"

Well, really, Blaise had already given him a plan, so he could be as rude to him now as he liked, but that wasn't a very friendly thing to do. Blaise had really pulled through for him, so Draco obediently sat back down on his log. "Yes, O Mighty One, please continue."

"Nothing more to it. Become _inescapable,_ and eventually she'll _have_ to face her feelings for you. Simple. Now, who's a pretty genius?"

"You are." They both got to their feet, and Blaise wrapped his robe around him a little more tightly. Draco held out a hand. "Really, Blaise... thank you. For your help, for coming out..."

Blaise used his outstretched hand to pull him into a hug. "That's what friends are for, or some such nonsense, right? Now, go back in there, take your clothes off, and become omnipresent."

Whistling as he strolled, Draco headed back to the house, rearranging the collar of his coat and smirking in anticipation of what was to come. No more Draco the Lovely; it was time to play ball.


	25. Killing Me Softly

_Chapter 25_

_Killing Me Softly_

Throwing open the door to their apartment seemed a cathartic relief for Hermione, as she practically dove through it in her hurry to get away from Draco, into her room.

"I've got the bags, it's fine!" he called jokingly, letting out a laugh as he dropped his bag at the couch and placed hers against the wall by her door.

He walked over to the front door, closing it carefully behind him. It took the weight of his back, allowing him to rest a moment. "_À bientot,_ France," he muttered, looking at his watch.

He gave her five minutes. During that period of time, he unpacked his bag - though, since his method consisted of simply upending it onto the couch, that action was complete in about ten seconds - took a leak, brushed his teeth, compiled a shopping list, and cleaned the kitchen benches.

"Hermione?" He used two knuckles to softly rap on the door to her bedroom. "Are you still feeling sick?"

"I'm _fine_, Draco," she called out, faking a dramatic cough that made her bed shake.

"Do you want some soup or something? I'm just about to duck out to the shops."

"No. Thanks."

He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he walked heavily over to the door, opened it, and then slammed it closed again. His shoes hardly made a noise as he slipped out of them and tiptoed in his socks over to the couch. It had springs that sounded like a dying cat, so he opted for the floor as he lay in wait.

Just as he had expected, Hermione burst through her bedroom door, a mere ten seconds after he had 'vacated' the premises.

"Thank _God_," she muttered to herself, walking over to the refrigerator. She poured herself a glass of juice, and dropped it when she saw him in the reflection of the glass. "Shit! Draco, what the hell are you doing? You're meant to be at the shops! You left a _second_ ago!"

"Yes, to put in a mail order," he explained with a gentle smile. "I already had a list drawn up; gave it to the owl that lives on the balcony outside the lift. Didn't you hear me come back in?" He carefully retrieved her wand from the side of her jeans, and used it to repair the glass and Disappear the contaminated juice. Their hands brushed when he handed her the fresh glass he had poured her, and she gulped.

The glass shook as she held it to her lips. "No, I didn't," she said weakly, setting it back down on the sparkling clean counter. "I, er... just got thirsty."

He held a considerate hand to her forehead. "God, Hermione, you've got a bit of a fever. Can I get you anything?"

"I feel fine," she said, pawing his hand away from her face.

"Sorry, sorry." He backed away, to the other side of the kitchen. "Do you... want a cup of tea or something? I was just about to boil the kettle."

Hermione cast a desperate glance towards her door, a whole fifteen paces away. He was in her way, standing right by the corner of the counter. Accepting her inescapable fate, she nodded weakly. "Tea would be... nice."

Draco did his best to seem normal, bustling around and dropping tea cups in mugs - his had a snake, hers had a cat. The kettle seemed to be thawing the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, judging by the length of time it was taking to boil. The first whisper of steam slipped out of the spout of the kettle, and Draco absent-mindedly smacked his lips.

"So..." He glanced around the kitchen, looking for a conversation topic. His eyes settled on the picture on the refrigerator, of the two of them with their scarves and their hair flying out with the wind, poking out tongues at the camera with Hermione on his back. A second or two after the tourist had taken that picture, she had toppled to the ground and he had fallen with her, and they had lain there in the leaves, laughing their heads off. That had been a good day. He smiled at the sight of it, and opened his mouth to mention it, to remind her that things didn't have to be this awkward, because as far as best friends go, they had been good ones.

"Hermione, remem-"

She jabbed her wand violently at the kettle, which erupted with a squawking and a burst of thick steam.

"Kettle's boiled," she announced unnecessarily, and snatched the tea and made a run for it.

He perched on the kitchen counter, a wide smile on his face as he heard her door slam. She wanted him. He could tell.

"Blaise," he whispered into the phone. "It's _working_, fantastically! You're a bloody _genius!_"

"Yes, well, I'm just ashamed it's taken you so long to acknowledge it. So, how'd it go? What's happened since I saw you last?"

"Well," Draco said, clutching the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he carried his tea and a bag of crisps over to the couch, "I did everything you said. I finished making dinner and I called her down and talked normally and then opened a bottle of wine and made her talk to me after dinner, and then she had to fill out a report or something for work in the living room so I took a shower and then came down in my pyjama pants... Oh, it was fantastic, should have seen her face when I walked in the room. We sat there for literally_ hours,_ and I read a book by the fire because it was a bit chilly with no shirt on, and she kept glancing up, shooting me these little micro-peeks... She fled to bed and then I insisted on taking her out to lunch and we sat in this little French café where everyone spoke French and I didn't understand a word of it and she had to translate for me when we ordered... Oh, _marvellous_, I tell you."

"And the train back?"

"We didn't take the train. She invented some excuse about work and Apparated us both back home, except she missed and dumped up on the pavement outside the apartment building, so I had to pretend that she'd fainted to distract people from that fact we'd appeared out of nowhere... She ran to her room like her arse was on fire, after."

"Can you _blame_ her?" Blaise asked cheerfully. There were noises in the background, whoops and cheers. "Wait a second, just getting out of the car... Sorry love, I'd rather not sign your... Oh, well in _that_ case... Draco, gotta dash! Call me later... but not for at least three and a half hours, okay?"

The dial tone greeted him, and while Draco was impressed with his friend's constant girl-flocking skills, he wished he could have stayed on the phone a few minutes longer. There wasn't much to do, really, with your roommate trying her best to stay the hell away from you.

Would it be too excessive, he pondered, to pull the shower-topless-wet-hair thing twice in one weekend? Probably, but what was he, if not excessive? Excessive, in a word, pretty much summed up his entire personality.

He whistled as he headed for the shower with a towel over his shoulder, shirt already discarded.

Hermione had been creeping across to the bathroom just as he had reached for the door handle. "Oh," she said, her voice coming out in a surprised squeak. "Sorry. As you were."

"No, go ahead," he said, backing away with his most dazzling smile. "I'm a bit hungry, actually. I'm thinking... Thai food? I can order while you shower."

She nodded, and slid forward towards the door just as he took a step forward. The result was skin against skin, her front sliding across his bare one as she gave a gasp.

"Sorry," he said, fighting desperately to pretend that it hadn't wracked his nerves as much as it had hers. He stepped back, leaving a wide, bare path to the doorway. "All yours. I'll go... order, shall I?"

Hermione swallowed, and stepped into the bathroom. Through the door, he heard her voice, normal as it ever was, call, "The entire chicken column, you think?"

"Ambitious," he choked back, almost sprinting to get away from the thought of her naked when the water started to fall from the showerhead.

So, the tables had turned, had they? She had, with a mere sentence and gritting of her teeth, turned his plan back on him, taking advantage of the hallway situation and becoming the confident, normal one while he turned into a stuttering idiot. Perfect. Hermione had one-upped him again, which, he had to admit, was part of the reason that he liked her so much. He couldn't _always_ be the winner of every game they played. His ego had its limits, but really, it would have to pop from enlargement eventually.

"You sound a bit funny, Mr Smith," said the man from the Thai place on the phone.

Hermione and he always called themselves Mr and Mrs Smith - as a joke, mind - whenever they were talking to people they didn't know, like ordering food or signing for packages. In a world of Muggle names like Bob and Mary, 'Hermione' and 'Draco' kind of stood out. Besides, it wasn't wise to go around parading their real names around town - being on the death lists of about twenty gazillion 'reformed' Death Eaters, and all.

"Funny? Me? No, I'm fine. Everything on the chicken column, thanks, Sid."

"Okey dokey, Mr Smith. See you and your wife in about forty minutes."

Replacing the phone in the cradle, Draco heard the water stop running. "Food's ordered," he called to Hermione. "It'll be about forty minutes."

"All right," Hermione called back. "I'm just getting out, hang on a sec..."

Draco flicked his fingers through his hair and threw his towel back over his shoulder before he headed to the door. It opened to reveal Hermione with only a towel wrapped around her, hair dripping and legs lithe and smooth. _Jesus._

See, this was strange, because Hermione always, _invariably_ dressed in the bathroom. Draco preferred to change elsewhere, since the walk dried him a little and prevented the clothes from sticking to his skin. Hermione, on the other hand, was too dignified to sacrifice her modesty, and so, every night and every morning, carried a small pile of garments into the bathroom with her and emerged fully dressed.

Therefore, this change to the rule meant... she was trying to make _him_ uncomfortable. That was supposed to be _his_ thing.

"Hi, sorry, erm, I'll just... slip past here."

She came unbearably close to him, eyes on his chest momentarily before they flicked up to his chest. "Sorry." He could feel the heat of her body as she moved past, an inch between them.

She walked down the hallway with a little skip in her step, and hovered briefly by the doorway to her bedroom before asking, "Draco? Do you mind if I call Adam over tomorrow night?"

"Not at all," he managed to answer. "I was planning on going out, anyway."

Aligned snapshots of both of their faces would have revealed that the announcements - Hermione's about Adam, and Draco's follow up when he decided he wanted to take control again - had shaken them both. Hermione looked shocked before her bedroom door shut, and Draco was flummoxed. Flummoxed, and a little bit impressed. She wouldn't be threatening him with another guy if she wasn't feeling the need to reinforce her position. She felt as though she was slipping. That much was obvious.

The shower did him good. Calmed him down, made him stink less... He took an exploratory sniff of his underarms, and, satisfied, wrapped the towel around his waist and strode out. Hermione was sitting on the couch, now fully dressed, flicking through channels on the television. Now, it was _his_ turn to do the nakedness thing. He fell onto the couch beside her, and casually extended one damp arm around her, as he did every night. "So. What are we watching?"

"Skins," Hermione replied blankly, before turning to him in surprise, as if she'd remembered the facade she was supposed to be maintaining. She smiled, and leant her head cautiously against his arm.

He tightened it around her, and for a moment, their respective farces meant that everything was as it should be, as it used to be.

It was a pity that it had to end.

"So, talked to Adam?" he asked.

"So, who are you going out with tomorrow night?" she countered.

Their mutual stares erupted into glares, and Hermione folded her arms. Draco changed the channel. The doorbell rang.

Their glances met, and both jumped to their feet. Hermione sat back down, glaring at a spot on the floor, and Draco rolled his eyes as he walked to the door.

"You and the missus at war, sir?" asked the delivery man sympathetically, handing Draco an armful of bags with one arm and holding out his other hand for money.

Once the man was gone, they laid the food out on the coffee table. It was awkward, throwing down paper bags and wrenching the lids off plastic containers. But like magic itself, things fell into place. He found himself accepting her offer of capsicum (which she hated) without thinking, and she helped herself to his peanuts (since he was allergic) as if nothing was wrong. When he was midway into the Pad Thai and she into the red curry, they swapped. He got up and turned on music - settling for a miscellaneous selection, because Blaise had borrowed the Thai CD Hermione had bought him when he'd had that Thai flight stewardess over to his place - and she burst out laughing at the noodle stuck to his chin.

"Truce?" she finally offered, taking his chopsticks and dumping them in one of the empty containers.

"Truce," he agreed, collecting an armful of rubbish to take to the bin.

They both knew, though, that until this was resolved, there was no truce. They would continue to try to out-manipulate one another and to always think two steps ahead, because neither could afford to lose this game.


	26. Fulfilling Conditions

_Chapter 26_

_Fulfilling Conditions_

Was it awful of him, to feel like he could finally breathe again when he set foot into his place of work? That _work_, the most horrible thing in the universe apart from burnt toast, was seen a _reprieve_ from the girl he loved?

Yes, he decided, as he approached Mallory's desk. Yes, it was.

"Hi Draco," she breathed, beaming up at him from her office chair. "What can I do you for?"

"Ten quid," he answered without missing a beat, and the shocked look on her face was _almost_ worth the hopes his joke had inspired in her tiny little brain. Though, his next action was going to boot those hopes up to eleven. "But really, Mal, dear... I was wondering if you'd like to join me for dinner tonight?"

"Dinner?" Her eyelashes fluttered hopefully up at him, and he caught sight of the boss' daughter - whose name he _still_ hadn't learnt - by the lift, and he said abruptly, "Hold that thought," to Mallory, and dashed over to her side.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Now, believe it or not, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He followed her into the supply closet - with absolutely no intentions of fulfilling the clichéd workplace-romance crap - and closed the door behind them. It was merely a very narrow room, overflowing with filled shelves and boxes. It was a difficult squeeze, but he managed to lean casually against the only patch of bare wall. She stood on a box, reaching to the top shelf to retrieve a green stapler from one of the storage units. Sitting down with stapler in hand, she demanded again, "What do you want?"

"Well." He slid down to the ground beside her. "What are you doing tonight?"

At his question, and the implication included in it, she opened the stapler until it was flat, and pointed it at his face. "I've got plans. Why are you asking?"

"Because," he answered, carefully using one finger to push the stapler out of his face. With a shrug of defeat, she absent-mindedly punched a staple into the cheap, flimsy walls of the room. And another, and another. "Because I was wondering if you wanted to have a drink. With me. Tonight."

"_Thanks_ for the clarification," she said, scoffing slightly and somehow managing to extend the first word into a three second bundle of vitriolic sarcasm.

There were a few seconds of awkward silence, punctuated by the occasional crunch of staples embedding in the wall.

"Well? What do you think?"

"I _think_ you look stupid in those pants. And I _think_ you'd have to convince me why I should bother."

Draco cleared his throat. "Okay... see, ever since I met you, I've felt a real connec-"

"No bullshit," she interrupted. "The _truth_, thanks."

Silence. Just for a moment. He had to figure out what to say, to make his real motive seem more substantial and less shallow and selfish. How could he twist it to be something more than the fact that he needed to make Hermione jealous, and he'd rather not have his head literally bored off his shoulders while he did so?

He quickly came to the conclusion, amidst the office supplies and the cigarette smoke - the source of which had been lit during his thinking time - that he couldn't. So, with a few minor modifications, that's exactly what he said.

"Hmm. Okay." She nodded, first to herself, then to him. She jabbed the stapler at his chest. "You know what? I like you. You're, if nothing else, a source of amusement in this place. So yeah, I'll help you. On one condition."

His jubilant smile faded with the word 'condition'. He should have known this was coming.

"I need you to do a dare for me."

"A dare?" He rubbed his hands together. He, Draco Malfoy, was in no way opposed to the idea of _dares._ He had been the dare _king_ at Hogwarts. "Go on, what is it then?"

"Short story shorter, I need you to get a pair of my mother's underwear."

His face betrayed what he tried to conceal, and he asked incredulously, "_Underwear_? Firstly... that's disgusting. Do you have some sort of weird fetish?"

"No," she answered firmly, pulling a compact mirror out of her back pocket and reapplying her black eyeliner. "I'm not going to explain myself to you, but... no."

"Isn't she your mother?" he couldn't resist asking. "Can't you... nick a pair and make me do something else?"

To his surprise, she looked sheepish. Her fringe fell around her face as she explained dryly, "My mother's lingerie drawer is heavily protected. Padlocks, guard dogs, lions and tigers and bears..." Upon seeing his facial expression, she clarified, in her most patronising tone, "Just the padlocks. Anyway, I need them, for strictly utilitarian purposes. So, get in there, and do your dare. Then I'll go to dinner with you."

"You never let me get to my second point," he protested. "_Secondly_, she's my _boss_. I could lose my _job!_"

"Would you rather lose Hermione?"

Her eyes pierced him, and he could do nothing but nod in agreement. "Okay," he finally said. "I'll do it. But if I get fired, I blame _you_."

"Noted." She left the storage closet, but not before extending a thin hand to shake on it. When she left, a box of files crashed to the floor with the force with which she'd shut the door. He sighed, getting on his knees and shuffling them roughly back into place. When he was crouched down, rearranging the files, he caught sight of the place where she had sat. There was a smiley face, punched in staples on the wall. A smile escaped from his lips as he stood to leave. Hand on the door knob, he glanced down at his pants. They weren't _stupid_. _Gosh._

It was with triumph, mostly faked, that he entered his boss' office. Most of the emotions in his body were something more along the lines of absolute bloody terror, but he fought to stay outwardly as he deposited a stack of paper on her desk, stapled neatly in one corner.

"My submission piece," he explained, in response to her raised eyebrow. "The one you told me to give you? Remember?"

"Oh, I remember, darling." She swept it to one side, and returned to filing her fake fingernails.

"Aren't you going to read it?" he asked, faking - _mostly_ faking - hurt, as his eyes followed his discarded piece. Contrary to his usual character, he'd actually put quite a lot of effort into it. It was a short story, from the point of view of a man who was unrequitedly in love with his roommate slash best friend. So, not that creative of him, but it was to test his _writing_ skills.

"Later, darling, later." She sprawled her top half all over her desk, and invited, "So, come a little closer. Tell me, darling, how's it going?"

"It?" he questioned.

"Life, everything." She waved a hand, frustrated with his confusion. "How's that pretty girlfriend of yours? Still together, yeah?"

"I... don't have a girlfriend," he answered slowly, racking his brain to remember a time he'd ever told her so.

"Oh, lovely, lovely... Anything you wanted?"

"Erm..." He was on the verge of saying, 'no, thanks all the same, I'll be off now' but stopped himself, gritted his teeth, and splashed on his most charming face. "Actually, there was. I was wondering if... well, would it be entirely inappropriate of me to ask you for a drink?"

"Deliciously so," she purred, opening a desk drawer and depositing two shot glasses and a bottle of clear spirits on her desk. She swept the paper from her desk onto the floor, and leant on one elbow as she poured him a glass. "Here, drink, darling. Let's... _talk._"

When she wasn't looking, he upended the glass into the ficus. For all he knew, it was spiked with some sort of love potion, or roofies or some such thing. Besides, he didn't want to be drunk for this. He wanted to be stone cold sober, and able to get the hell away from there, because his locomotion skills were never at their best when he was inebriated.

She downed hers, though, so it seemed that it was safe enough. Still, the ficus continued to get a watering until she was completely plastered.

He stood up, briefly, to close the shutters that shielded the window into the bull pen. Freddie let out an obnoxious giggle, slurring, "Why? Scared they'll see, darling?"

"Well," he answered kindly, "I think Mallory's a bit jealous... and... you know, I wouldn't want her to see if anything... happened." He looked up at her through his lashes, and she simpered.

"I'm fairly sure it will," she breathed in his face, smelling of alcohol, cigarettes, and dentures.

He tried to prevent his face from showing his disgust, and so instead leant in very close to her ear, and, withholding a shudder as she ran her scaly fingers through his hair, whispered her name.

That was all it took. The dragon leapt in for a kiss, but he stumbled backwards. He had his limits, after all, and he would _not_ kiss that.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking a few steps back to her. "I'm... allergic. To other people's saliva. It's a bit embarrassing."

"Oh, I understand, darling." Instead, she unbuttoned the first three buttons of his dress shirt, and ran one hand over his chest.

He couldn't take this any longer. "Am I the only one getting naked, then?"

It was to his infinite relief that she was one of those people who remove underwear first, still wearing her dress. He turned his back to her, pretending to heave, and used a pair of tweezers to deposit a leopard print thong into the zip lock bag that her daughter had pressed into his hand. Once it was safely in his pocket, he swallowed a wave of revulsion and heaved again. It was easy to fake; he felt as though he was _about_ to vomit.

"I feel... I'm going to puke..."

Apparently, her passion for the cleanliness of her office took precedence over her libido, because she instantly sobered up and squawked, "Jesus Christ, get out, then!"

He made a run for it, aiming for the bathroom. Regaining his composure was more important than immediately fulfilling his errand. Besides, he had no doubt that she would track him down eventually.

He stood in front of the mirror in the lavatory, the blue tinged light making him look washed out and tired. There were bags under his eyes that he hadn't noticed this morning, but he had been awake most of the night, listening to Hermione sleep.

A blue fluorescent light clicked on, and the girl was suddenly behind him in the reflection, leaning against one of the stalls.

"Well done," she said, her eyes meeting his through the mirror. They were heavily outlined in dark makeup, but somehow it suited her. He couldn't imagine her without it.

"Take it." He wrinkled his face in disgust, and threw the plastic bag at her. She caught it and tucked it into the canvas bag over her shoulder, smirking at the expression on his face. Well, it wasn't _his_ fault that he was disgusted by the woman's undergarments.

"I'll meet you tonight, at the Wizard," she said, nodding in appreciation of her end of the bargain. "Eight o'clock?"

He swallowed. "Sounds good."

He didn't watch her leave, but he heard the door swing closed behind her. There was a sick, gnawing feeling in his stomach. He didn't _enjoy_ doing this to Hermione - manipulating her with another girl - but it had to be done, didn't it? He had _tried_ to be the noble, self-sacrificing best friend, and honestly, it just hadn't worked for him. He wasn't mature, he was dirty and underhanded, and it was time for him to accept and embrace that.

The watch on his wrist counted five minutes before he deemed it safe to go back outside. Sure enough, she was gone. He went over to the desk that had been assigned to him, and sat down in front of the computer. Surprisingly enough, the use of it had come to him rather naturally after two lessons from Mallory. After merely a week, he was adept enough to open a game of Solitaire and get his arse kicked.

Five o'clock ticked around, and Draco was exhausted from having spent the entire day avoiding Mallory's hopeful glances, creating excuses whenever she came near him. It was such a relief to skip out of there that he gave Freddie a wave on his way past her window. She looked composed enough, but the knowledge that she was underwear-less put a slight damper on his increasingly good mood.

"I'm home!" he announced majestically, wrenching his keys out of the stubborn lock. "Greet me, please!"

He heard a door close towards Hermione's bedroom, and entered a few steps into the living room. All of a sudden, she walked out, towel around her torso but slipping dangerously low as she rubbed at her hair with another.

"Oh my God!" she shrieked, hoisting up the towel and tightening it. He could have pointed out, at that point, that tightening merely increased cleavage, but he decided to play nice and not indulge the little sadistic voice in his head.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, holding his coat up to his eyes and mumbling through it, "I _did_ call out."

"I was listening to music," she explained breathlessly, yanking the knot of her bathrobe as she tightened it around herself. Now that she was clothed, she seemed to be able to sit beside him on the couch and ask chattily, "So, how was your day?"

"Traumatic," he answered, referring to the underwear incident but mind still flashing with the slight glimpse he had gotten of Hermione topless. That sight had made his day more than better; it had made it one of the best of his life.

"Oh, jeez... it's not like you haven't seen a woman's breasts before, Draco," she snapped, pulling one of the throw pillows in front of her chest.

"Not _you_," he clarified. "I mean, _you're_ not the traumatic incident."

"Do I _want_ to know?"

"Doubtful."

"Okay then."

He almost asked what they were having for dinner, until he remembered that they were both eating out, because they were both on the verge of obsessive about this out-manipulating game that they'd both fallen into playing. Yes, he could admit, it was his fault, but he wanted it to end, now. They were both getting drawn into this too deeply.

That being said, he wasn't willing to sit on the sidelines and watch as Adam and Hermione skipped off into the sunset. He wasn't quite ready to give up on her just yet.

"So, you and Adam are going out?" he asked, after a momentary pause.

"Yeah, to that new club... what's it called, the Wizard?" She smiled at the irony. "Adam's choice. I don't really have the inclination, but you know. What can you do?"

"Yeah," he echoed. "What can you do?"

Fighting hard to maintain a straight face, Hermione asked casually, "So, where are you and your... friend... going?"

"The Wizard too, actually... her choice. Might see you there."

"Yeah. Might do."

Silence. The sound of the clock next door ticked incessantly, too loud. He could hear the cat upstairs scratching at furniture, and the couple directly below them talking in those 'I'm trying not to get angry and swear the bleeding head off you' voices that they seemed to utilise so often. There was a toddler screaming for its Reptar doll, and an old lady yelling at characters in a soap opera she liked to watch. In that moment, Draco felt like he could feel what was happening, the life of every apartment in the building. Except theirs, because there was nothing but _silence._

"So, I'm going to go take a shower."

"Okay, erm, have fun."

The thick layer of glass that had held everything in the apartment motionless shattered, spraying them both with the shards. He got up and went to the bathroom, and she stayed on the couch. He didn't get into the shower straight away, but instead sat on the colourful blue bathmat and waited until he heard the television switch on.

At seven thirty, just as Draco was holding up a black tie and a navy one against his white shirt in the mirror, the doorbell rang. Hermione uncured herself from the couch, but Draco got there first. Adam was standing there, flowers in his hand, looking expectantly disappointed.

"Oh, darling, you shouldn't have," Draco said, holding out his hands for the flowers.

Hermione elbowed him out of the way, shooting him a scathing glare and explaining to Adam, "Ignore him; he likes to make up for the fact that he doesn't have a brain by teasing people who do. Oh, they're _lovely_, Adam!"

As she bustled around the kitchen, looking for a vase, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "Mark my words, Draco Malfoy, if you don't be nice I'll spit in your tea every day for the next year."

"Yeah, yeah." The conversation was already boring him.

On her way out the door, Hermione called, "The black tie, Draco. Have a nice evening!" In the doorway, just before the door closed on them, she pulled Adam down into a kiss. Draco couldn't help but wonder whether Adam knew that the last lips to have touched hers hadn't been his, whether she felt any different.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself. "You too."

When their cab pulled away from the curb - he could see from the window - he grabbed his coat, threw it over his shoulder, and raced to catch the repaired lift. He wasn't going to let that snotty doctor win over him this time.


	27. Jealousy

_Chapter 27_

_Jealousy_

The music was loud and pounding, almost unbearable. Draco didn't know why the girl had chosen this place. He had pictured a romantic dinner, where he could pretend to hold her hand and stroke her hair while they whispered sarcastic comments to one another. Not... this.

There were strobe lights that meandered across the dance floor, hovering on couples and forcing singles together. Yellow, green, pink... they skittered around the room and made him feel like he was about to have a seizure or something, a feeling that only worsened as the volume of the music increased. There was a cloud of odd-smelling smoke coming from the DJ booth, which seemed to explain the erratic music choices.

He caught sight of the girl in his peripheral, easily making her way through the crowd towards him. She was wearing a little black dress, slashed at the thighs and ribs. Her chunky jewellery seemed out of proportion with her thin wrists, but it suited her. Everything she wore suited her.

"Hi," he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the music.

She didn't response, just gave a smirk and scanned the crowd. "Where is she?" she finally yelled in his ear, having to stand on her toes to reach it.

That was what he was trying to figure out, as his eyes swept the crowd of gyrating bodies. Before, when they were in school, he would have looked for the bushy hair and been done with it. Tonight, though, when she'd left, her hair had been waving down her bare back in gentle curls. He wouldn't be able to pick her out so easily.

It was mere luck that saw him feeling a familiar knobbly elbow jam into his back, and to distinguish the apologetic, "Jesus, sorry," from the crowds of others.

"Hermione!" He caught her by the hand, making sure to keep his eyes on his own date. It was difficult, though. The girl was pretty in a grungy, heavy-eye-makeup way, but Hermione was beautiful, and the black dress emphasised it. He couldn't stand there, though, with his eyes glued to her form, because then the entire purpose of the night would be lost and screwed to hell. So he forced his eyes back to the girl, and said to Hermione, "This is-" He paused, panicking, when he realised that he still didn't know her name.

"Esmeralda," the girl introduced herself, holding out a hand for Hermione to shake. His eyes met hers, and he couldn't read the expression behind them. He didn't know whether she was lying, or whether that was her real name, but it suited her decently enough, and it covered the extraordinary blank left by his lack of knowledge.

Hermione looked sufficiently hurt by his choice in date. She could see that Esmeralda was pretty, that she was more his type than any of the commercialised girls in the office that he could have taken. That was part of the reason he had chosen her. Hermione knew him well enough to know that there was no way that he would fancy someone like Mallory. It would have been obvious - more obvious than it already was - that the whole thing was just a ruse, and then... he wouldn't have even the slight sliver of hope that he possessed now.

"It's nice to meet you," she shouted, and Esmeralda smiled indulgently. "But I'd really better get back to Adam."

Esmeralda tugged on his hand, pulling him into the fray. They began to dance, not touching, merely very, _very_ close to one another, bodies moving in time to the bass line of the song that burst from the walls. She looked natural, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.

It was working fine. They were dancing, but he wasn't touching her, so he didn't have to feel guilty. He kept sneaking glances over to Hermione, who was sitting at one of the tables around the dance floor, sipping on a drink. Adam seemed immersed in their conversation, talking exuberantly, hand gestures and all. Once, Hermione caught his eye.

"No." Esmeralda caught his chin with one hand, just as he was slipping his gaze back to Hermione. She forced him to look at her, and there was a fierce expression in her eyes. "Eyes on me, kiddo, or you'll never succeed. Come here." She deftly manoeuvred his hands around her waist, and he tightened the grip she placed. One of her arms looped around his neck, pulling them closer together.

Well. Okay, then.

Standing on her tiptoes, she leant up to his ear and whispered, "You've got to make her think you _mean_ it." Her voice was husky, rough with the cigarettes and smelling of the lime cocktail she'd drank before he arrived.

He didn't know how long he could sustain this. It felt as though he was betraying Hermione by dancing this close to a girl who wasn't her. But Esmeralda's black fingernails dug into his shoulder, reminding him that this whole thing was in order to get Hermione, and if he screwed it up now, he'd have no chance.

It didn't take long for Hermione to convince her own date to dance with her and to join them on the dance floor. Their closeness was unaffected and normal, not fake and forced like his and Esmeralda's was. Still, Hermione didn't look entirely comfortable with Adam's hands roving all over her.

It was all he could do to stay here, opposite Esmeralda, to refrain from going over and ripping Adam's bloody head off his shoulders for touching her like that. That was how _he_ had touched her, when they had kissed. He remembered perfectly how his hands had been everywhere, at her waist, at her shoulder, through her hair...

"Refrain, please," Esmeralda snapped, pinching his wrist. "I'd rather not have to settle your bitch fight tonight, thanks."

"There won't be anything to settle if he's _dead_," he snapped, as she reached up and kissed him. The snarl on his lips faded into nonexistence with shock. He didn't respond for a good three seconds, which didn't seem to faze her at all. Her hand just moved up to his face, and her mouth kept probing at his.

It felt wrong, this, the feel of another girl's lips at his. He felt awkward and uncomfortable, but he wasn't going to pass up this opportunity. So he kissed her back, as best as he knew how, and made sure to fiddle with her teased hair the way he had with Hermione's, just so she knew she wasn't special. Oh, but she was.

It seemed to last a painful eternity, but when they surfaced, Esmeralda took him by the hand and murmured, "Coat room," in his ear. He caught a glimpse of Hermione's horrified face before she turned fierce and threatening and pulled Adam into another back-bending kiss to rub it in his face. But the damage had already been done. He was triumphant. He left Esmeralda pull him away from the noise, into an abandoned back room in the club.

"That seemed successful," he said, coughing uncomfortably and loosening his tie. "Erm, thanks for the warning."

She didn't say anything, just looked at him.

"How long are we staying in here?" he asked finally, when it became apparent that she wasn't going to respond to his first comment.

"As long as it takes," she answered coolly, studying her fingernails.

"Can I ask a question?"

"I might not answer."

"Why did you need your mother's underwear?"

A smirk graced her face for a moment, until she looked at him quite seriously. "To make my stepfather divorce her."

"Jeez, blunt. Why would you do a thing like that?"

She shrugged, something unfamiliar like pain rumpling a few lines into her forehead "She cheats; he deserves to know."

There was a pause in the narrative, though whether it was due to it being over or her needing a cigarette he didn't know. She twirled it between her fingers, and flicked the lighter against the end of it. The ashes smouldered, and flared red when she took a long drag. The smoke rolled out of the corner of her mouth, in ribbons and rivulets.

He coughed.

"Sorry," she said, unapologetic in her tone, and made no move to extinguish her cigarette.

So he moved on. "I understand you wanting to break them up, but... underwear? Really?"

In about two seconds, she sketched out her plan for him. "He's got a meeting at his boss' house. I slept with the boss' son, for access to the house. What do you think dear old stepdad'll say when he sees Mum's thong on his boss' bed?"

All he could think of to say was, "Good thing she was wearing a distinctive pair, then."

She laughed a little, and it lit up her face. "You know, the funny thing is, I don't even know if it's him."

"What?" From the sounds of it, and from the look on her face as she dragged on her cigarette, he could guess that she had done something bad.

"I came home, saw a silver Jag in the driveway. He was the only one I knew with one. I took an educated guess, a gamble..."

"With a man's _job_?"

She waved a hand, saying, "God no... if I know my father, _he'll_ leave. There isn't much he could do to get his own boss fired, and he has too much pride to even try.

He took a few moments to consider, to try and put himself in her shoes and see what he would have done. He supposed that he couldn't really judge, considering that as far as he knew, his parents were still suffering through a reasonably ordinary, faithful marriage, as much so as it could be.

"Why, though?" he couldn't help but ask. "Isn't ignorance... bliss?"

In that moment, he felt unbearably sad for the small human being sitting opposite him, with her heavy eyeliner and her bangle with the skull on it and her ripped little dress, who was pretending to be fine with the way her life had turned out, when her mother was cheating on her father and her father didn't have a clue, and it was up to her to sort everything out in the only way she knew how - manipulation.

It struck him, then, that he had been doing the same thing. He wasn't used to buying girls flowers and chocolates and being _nice_ to them. Their affection for him had never had to be _earned_, because it was always freely given. With Hermione, though? He had to work hard at it, and he wasn't going about it the right way. He was using manipulation, too, and he'd managed to work a not-so-innocent girl into his plot. She shouldn't have to put up with his issues; she had her own.

There were two things that he needed to do, and he was having trouble prioritising. On one hand, he owed it to Esmeralda to stay here, comfort her, talk, don't talk, whatever she preferred. She had, after all, attempted to help him with his situation with Hermione. She deserved that much. On the other hand, he needed to find Hermione before she did anything rash with Adam. And by rash, he meant, they were in the age of transmitted diseases, so best be getting home.

The answer to his dilemma was easily found when she stubbed out her cigarette and tottered to her feet on her high heels.

"Are you okay?" he asked concernedly, supporting her by her arm.

"I'm fine," she insisted, shrugging him off. Her makeup was blurred, but she didn't seem to notice, or, more likely, give a damn. "I'm _fine_." Taking a breath, she wiped her hand across her forehead and muttered, "I need a _drink_," before striding out of the room.

"Easy enough," he mumbled, breaking into a jog as he broke back into the crowd of people, searching for Hermione. This time, it was impossible. No familiar elbow jolted into his back, no familiar voice apologised. Realising that he was wasting his time, he made a beeline for the doorman. "Have you seen a girl, about this height, brown curly hair, brown eyes, wandering around with a tall blonde poncy lad?"

"Like yourself?" supplied the doorman helpfully, his thick eyebrows drawing together in an expression that could have been either confusion and deep thought or sarcasm.

"Kind of," Draco admitted reluctantly. "She was wearing a black dress, if that helps."

Nine out of ten girls in the club were wearing black dresses. So, he assumed, it didn't _really_ help too much.

"She probably would have been making out with the blonde guy," he added, corners of his lips dropping.

"_Oh_, _that_ one! Yeah, she left about five minutes ago."

It was sad, that the doorman had only been able to recognise her amongst the scores of other brunettes in black dresses when Draco had mentioned being locked at the lips with a blonde ponce.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, making him jump violently. The doorman snickered, and Draco tried to ignore him as he fished it out and saw a new message from an unknown number.

'Draco,' it read. 'Apparently, Joe the bartender saw her leave recently with that doctor prat. Go get her.'

Esmeralda. Of course.

He called her number, trying not to fall over the drunken man sprawled out on the sidewalk as he left the club. "Two steps ahead of you," he said when she answered on the second ring, sticking out his left hand to hail a cab. One screeched to a halt in front of him almost immediately, and he bounded in cheerfully. He was one step closer to confessing everything to Hermione, because, if anything would stop the lying and manipulation, it would be that.

"Congratulations," she drawled, voice husky. He heard a gurgling of alcohol in her mouth as she swallowed, and a noise that sounded suspiciously like the sort of wet slurping that drunk people make when they kiss each other.

"Is that-"

"Yes. Hope you don't mind. We weren't on a _real_ date, anyway."

Was that a tinge of _bitterness_, colouring her tone? He didn't know whether to draw attention to it, as the cab pulled out from the curb, or to ignore it. It hardly mattered, because he didn't have the chance to decide, anyway. She moved on, rapidly informing him, "So, I'll see you tomorrow. Tell me how it goes," and then hung up.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and told the cab driver to pull over at the corner. There was only a block to the apartment, and he could walk it faster than the cab could weave through the heavy traffic. He shoved a few bills through the compartment at the driver and broke into a run. He didn't want to walk in on Hermione and Adam going at it; he would rather get in before it got that far.

A quick prayer of thanks shot up from his mind to whoever had gotten the elevator fixed, as he jumped in and pressed his thumb insistently against the button for his floor. It felt unsteady, as the lift heaved upwards, but he was too frantically excited to be fearful for his life. His keys jangled in the pocket of his trousers, ready to be jammed into the lock.

The door wouldn't open. He sunk his foot into the wood beneath the lock, and again near the hinges, until it opened with a shocking crack that _certainly_ would have paused Hermione and Adam in whatever they were doing.

"Hermione?" he called, stepping cautiously into the apartment.

It was quiet. Too quiet. As if they were lying on Hermione's bed, frozen.

He cringed as he walked over to her door. The handle didn't want to move, unless that was his _hand_ that was remaining stubbornly stationary. A deep breath filled his lungs, and he pushed on the tarnished handle.

The door swung open. The room was empty.

He slipped out of his coat, dropping it on her bed.

"Hermione?" he called out again, no longer confident.

She wasn't here. She and Adam had left together, and they hadn't separated, and they hadn't come here together. They were... at his place. Probably making out. Probably worse.

He climbed into Hermione's bed with his clothes still on, the distinctive scent of her apple and vanilla shampoo lingering over the pillow. He clutched it to his chest, as he curled up in the place where she slept every night, trying to come to terms with the fact that even though this was one time he had won, he felt like he had lost a great deal more than a game.


	28. Admitting Defeat

_Chapter 28_

_Admitting Defeat_

Draco's eyes were glued closed, and he could hear breathing that wasn't his own.

He was almost loath to open them, and behold which meaningless girl he'd gotten off with in the aftermath of his depression. He remembered something about a club, and he remembered a _manly_ pink cocktail. He was aware that he was on a bed, his head on a pillow that smelt quite pleasant.

A shocking thought wracked through his mind. What if... God, he hadn't slept with _Esmeralda_, had he?

Bracing himself for the shock and horror, he cracked one eye open. There was a body lying on the bed next to him, watching him. He recognised the face distinctly, with a stab of something akin to acid burn.

Hermione.

"Hermione," he mumbled blearily, opening both eyes and rubbing them vigorously to remove all traces of sleep. "You got in late last night, I see."

Hermione was fully dressed, in the same clothes she had been wearing last night. There was a man's coat around her shoulders, which sent another horrible stab of pain through him until he recognised the cut of the lapels, the piece of paper sticking out of the breast pocket. His own coat. He vaguely, after that prompt, remembered throwing it down on the bed when he had come in here the night before.

Oh, God. The night before.

He _hadn't_ slept with a meaningless girl. Instead, he had slept in a very meaningful girl's bed, without that girl's presence. And now, she was here to demand an explanation.

"This morning, actually." Hermione sat cross legged on the bed, and mindlessly reached out a hand to smooth down a hank of his ruffled hair. When she realised, she snatched it back, and went back to playing with the hem of his coat. "So... what are you doing?"

"I can explain," he supplied helpfully, trying to think of ways to stall so that he had time to think of how to explain.

"Or the truth could work, too," she said gently, smiling a little. She held out a hand - clean and white; she'd obviously showered and moisturised at his house. He could smell her cherry blossom skin cream, and could immediately deduce - could these stabbing pains not give him a break? - that she had done it at his place. _His_ place. If she had showered here, he would have heard the water run, and she would have changed into new clothes. Did she have a jar of cream sitting innocuously on his bedside table? What other daily traditions had their duplicates in Adam's apartment, repeated when Draco wasn't around? The idea shocked him more than he thought it would.

Her hand - the one smelling of cherry blossom moisturiser and betrayal - reached out to his, fingers closing around it. She pulled him to an upright position, using that hand, and she unbuttoned his shirt for him, her small fingers working around the buttons, down his chest. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through the shirt, from his chest to his stomach. He luxuriated in the feeling, for the briefest moment, until he realised that this was _not_ normal platonic friend behaviour.

"What are you doing?"

"_You're_ showering," she explained, throwing his bunched up shirt into the laundry hamper, "and _I'm_ making us some coffee, and then we're going to talk."

"Talk?" He blinked, trying to parse her words for subtext. What did _they_ have to talk about?

"Yes. Talk." Hermione meaningfully glanced down at the blue comforter tangled around his legs

Oh. Right. _That._

He attempted a sarcastic salute, mumbling, "Yes, ma'am," as she laughed and shoved him towards the bathroom.

While the hot water ran and burnt red on his skin, he could smell bagels toasting in the kitchen, and the strong black coffee that stung his nose. Hermione was one of those 'one bag per cup' coffee people, and it showed.

He stayed in the shower far too long. He didn't want to have to face the 'Draco, we're just _friends_, you shouldn't be sleeping in my _bed_' speech. He didn't want to hear her try to break it to him gently that she was in love with Adam and intended to spend the rest of her life with him. He _especially_ didn't want to hear the 'well, I've already got a jar of skin cream there; may as well shift the lot' speech.

Eventually, though, when the hot water spluttered and was replaced with piercing cold, he had no choice but to climb out of the shower, drape a towel around his waist, and sneak out to get some clothes.

"Here." Once he was dressed, she pressed a cup of tea into his hands. She was seated at the kitchen table, cupping a mug of coffee, and she wasn't wearing his coat anymore. It lay on the table beside her, and one hand occasionally snuck out to touch it.

He noticed, confusedly, but chose to ignore it. Best get this awful conversation over with as soon as possible.

Hermione was making no move to begin, so he dove in instead. "So, have a nice time at Adam's?"

"Not bad. Have a nice time in my bed?"

"Yeah, about that..."

She raised one eyebrow expectantly.

"I was a little drunk," he lied. "Collapsed wherever. Sorry about that."

She didn't believe him. It was obvious by her little snort of derision at his false words, by the way she abruptly pushed back her chair and walked over to the sink to tip out the rest of her coffee.

"I'm late for work," she said without looking at him, as if she'd expected him to say something else.

Without showering, without changing, she walked out the door. It slammed shut behind her, and he couldn't help but think that he had royally screwed up this one. What could he have done? Told the truth, admitted that he had just needed to be near a part of her while she was off with another man? She would have scoffed, and she would have explained to him that she was already in a relationship, and that their living situation wasn't going to work out if he was constantly trying to sabotage that. She would have squeezed his hand sympathetically, given a small, gentle smile, and walked out to work, just as she had this time.

May as well retain a little dignity, if the effect was going to be the same.

He pulled on his work clothes, choosing the navy tie that Hermione had told him not to wear the night before. Trying to shove Hermione out of his mind, he did a quick scan of the apartment from the doorway. He had keys, phone, work, candy bar... He was set.

The commute to work was long and tiring. Traffic was particularly horrendous, as if it had conspired with Hermione against him to make this day awful. It was working, too.

When he arrived at work, exhausted and crabby, Mallory assaulted him before he'd taken five steps into the building.

"You're a bastard, you know that?" she snapped.

"Yep, I know," he said wearily, slinging his back off his shoulder and dumping it on his chair.

She took in front of him, in all her pencil-skirted glory, hands on her hips and an extraordinarily peeved off expression on her face. "I can't believe you, Draco. I _can't_ believe you."

"Okay."

He pressed the button on his computer, to find an awaiting email from Freddie. 'Office, now, tiger.'

He contemplated it as Mallory exclaimed, "You _invite me to dinner_, without telling me the address or time, so I expect to get a message, something romantic, directing me to rose petals and candle light. I waited at home _all night long_, and then I find out this morning you were whoring it around with _her_ all night? You're a real bastard, Draco."

"Mallory, I'm... sorry. I didn't realise we had plans."

"Oh, you _didn't realise?_ That's fine, I'll just go back to being _nice_ to you? Is that what you want me to say?"

The girl was actually hurt. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her lips were thin, she looked... disappointed. For a moment, he scoffed inwardly, but he forced himself to think like Hermione would want him to. For all her blatant flirting, she had been the first person to be nice to him here. He couldn't just... toss her off.

"Look, I'm really sorry, Mallory." For once, he would flirt for a good reason. He smiled at her, and invited, "Well, would you like to have a drink after work? We can go together, so there'll be no text messages necessary."

She stared at him for a moment, as if shrewdly measuring up all of the factors. Slowly, she nodded, drumming her fingernails along the edge of his desk. Laughing a little, she warned, "If you leave me hanging again, I'll disembowel you with a three hole punch."

He held up his hands, laughing with her. "Oh, I'll consider myself warned, then. Now, as much as I'd like to stay and chat, Freddie calls."

Mallory winced, her fingers brushing over his tie. "Watch out. She's on the rampage this morning."

Uh oh. He was going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that Freddie didn't want to shake him by the hand and congratulate him on his story.

He was probably going to get fired, wasn't he? He had _known_ this would happen. That was the _last_ time he listened to Esmeralda about anything, ever again.

His boss was sitting on her desk, in a high slit skirt, her underwear discarded on the floor. She had applied an extra coat of garish makeup, and was _purring_ at him through her purple tinged lips.

"Freddie," he said civilly, but she leapt forward and grabbed him by the tie, pulling him closer to her.

"Skip the pleasantries, darling. We've got work to do."

"Mother!"

Esmeralda stormed into the room, furious. "Don't _touch_ him, and maybe next time you should remember to close the blinds."

Freddie released his tie, trying to straighten herself up. "Oh, hello, sweetheart. It isn't what it looks like."

"Of course it bloody well is," snapped Esmeralda. "Just as it was with Justin, and Bobby, and Felix, and... oh, wait, every other male employee you've ever hired. If you're going to whore around, mother, choose _other_ people's boyfriends." She took Draco's hand, digging her fingernails into it tightly, a warning. He stayed quiet; she was going to handle this. "Jesus, mother, could you be any more of a try hard? You're _past your prime; _that much is obvious if you've resorted to sleeping with Daddy's boss."

"You... you..." Her mother stuttered, and then simpered, and then pretended to cry. Draco knew better; he could see the cruel upturn of her lips.

"Go on, Draco," Esmeralda murmured in his ear, shoving him out the door with a well placed hand. She had rescued him from the terror that was her mother. He was never going to not listen to her every again.

Their argument wracked through the building. Every employee stopped mid-project, listening intently.

"Not another one," someone muttered.

"Oh yes, that blonde lad."

"She's a right screamer, isn't she?"

The elevator doors opened with a loud _ding_ that seemed to punctuate the murmuring silence. A tall, heavyset businessman - who Draco had never set his pretty eyes on before - strode wordlessly towards Freddie's office, briefcase in hand and looking ready to kill. Draco paused by the door to the office, caught like a deer in the headlights. He was contemplating whether or not to warn the man - that going in there would scar him for life - but the other man got to him first.

"Who are you?" he asked, rather impolitely, looking Draco up and down with a touch of regret and horror colouring his expression.

"I'm, er, Draco Malfoy. Sir."

The man groaned, and pressed on into the office, muttering something about how his wife had always liked the blonde ones under his breath.

Once the office door had closed firmly, Draco tiptoed back to Mallory, who looked entranced. "What _happened_?"

The sight of Freddie on her desk was still scarred into his brain, so he didn't feel quite up to recounting the whole sordid tale just yet. She seemed to understand that, and went back to the story she was typing up for someone. Draco, on the other hand, fled into the supply closet.

Esmeralda joined him, half an hour later. Without a word, she offered him a cigarette. When he shook his head, she sighed.

"So?" he prompted. "What happened?"

"My mother," she announced, "is going to be spending a few weeks in the country, a little holiday, while my father sorts out her affairs. We're thinking she might like Tuscany."

"You told him everything? He knows?"

"I'd say that's an accurate assessment."

They both nodded silently, in answer to no question, just for something to do to distract from the awkwardness.

"Look, if you need to talk..."

"I know where you are."

"Okay." With a sigh, he started to climb to his feet.

"Draco?" she interrupted him.

"Mmm?"

"Can we talk?"

With a slight smile of satisfaction, he nodded, and slid back down the wall with her staple marks still in it. She flicked the wheel of her lighter back and forth, and let out a sigh. "I don't want my father to leave me."

"What? He wouldn't."

"He's afraid I'll turn out like her. If I come home late, he thinks I'm a step closer. If I sleep with someone, he blames _her_. I can't... do what I want, without being compared to her. I'm not going to end up a forty year old whore with a bad perm... am I?"

"He should be proud to have a daughter like you," Draco informed her lightly, nudging her arm with his elbow.

She grinned, and then laughed, "You're so full of shit, Draco Malfoy," and nudged him back. He toppled over, into a box of files, and burst out laughing.

"And you're not as much of a bad arse as you like to think you are," he retorted, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. "Come on. Admit it. Deep down, you're a marshmallow."

"I'll never admit that."

"Okay." He climbed to his feet, teasing her. Hovering with his hand on the door handle, he waited expectantly.

"Okay, okay! I'm a marshmallow! Jesus, it takes a bit to keep you happy, doesn't it?"

His thoughts immediately flicked, faster than the speed of light, to Hermione. No, it didn't take much to keep him happy... only her.

"Yeah, I know," she said, responding to the expression on his face. Her tone was subdued, now, and the mood had gone from light-hearted to dark. "You should tell her that."

Dubious. Why would he even bother? Hermione liked Adam, and whatever had happened in France was... over.

"She'll care."

He glanced at her sideways. "You think you know everything, don't you?"

"I _do_ know everything," she answered, stubbing her cigarette out on the wall. "Now, do you need any more of a prompting, or will that do?"

He took a breath. Obviously, she _did_ know a fair deal about a lot of things. Why not? It was, after all, worth it. He would go home, and he would tell her... how he felt. The words sounded terrifying and imposing in his mind, because he knew that for once, he _did_ feel. This wouldn't just be a string of false promises and invented expressions of love, because Hermione was more than all those other girls combined.

He climbed to his feet, but paused at the door. Esmeralda remained on the floor, sitting against the wall with an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She didn't glance up for endless seconds - retreating back into herself - but when she did, she gave a small smile. "Good luck, slugger."

He didn't bother to talk to Freddie, or to give Mallory more than a word of apology, as he rushed out of the office. While most days he walked, there was a sense of urgency about him that demanded public transport. A cab screeched to a halt before he had even stuck out a hand, and within seconds he was speeding down the streets of London, towards his apartment.

His stomach spun and twisted, wrenching as some sort of nervous bile stung its sides. He felt as though he was about to be sick. His heart pounded, an erratic beat strong enough to crush through his ribcage.

In the lift, he realised that Hermione wouldn't be home. She would be _at work_, where he was supposed to be.

"Shit!" he swore, sending an errant kick at the side of the elevator. Just as he was about to press the button to go back down - tail between his legs, head bowed - his phone rang.

Hermione.

"Hermione," he said urgently into the phone. "I-"

"I need you," she whispered, voice shaking. "I'm... at the apartment. Can you come?"

A smile stretched across his face, jubilant and wide, as he stepped out of the lift. Their front door loomed in front of him, daunting in its symbolism.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hand on the handle.

"I just..." She swallowed a sob, "need you. Here. With me. Please."

She was sitting curled up on the carpet, against the couch, in the place where he always sat when they ate on the floor. Her arms were tight around her knees, and her eyes stared at the blank television, unseeing. There were tearstains down her face, and when she had bought the waterproof mascara, he didn't remember this being included in her list of its pro points. Hermione, always with the subconscious foresight.

He watched for a few seconds, through the crack in the door.

The phone was held against her face by one hand, and she uncurled the other arm from around her knees to slash the back of her free hand over her cheeks.

"Please," she whispered again.

When he stepped through the door to their apartment, phone to his ear, and answered, "Okay," her face lifted. He dropped his phone, and ran to where she was collapsed by the couch. Her arms clutched at him as he fell to his knees beside her. They were around his neck in an instant, and she was holding onto him as if he was all that was keeping her there. He wrapped his own arms around her, and felt her face against his chest.

"Hermione," he asked urgently. "What's wrong?"

"Adam knows," she managed to get out, her face still hidden in his shirt. "He told me he couldn't take being my... my second choice. Can we just... can we stop playing this stupid game?"

"Of course," he answered, his chin on her head as he ran his hand over her hair. She clutched at his shirt, now collapsed against his chest, and he repeated, softly, "Of course."


	29. Dirty Laundry

_Chapter 29_

_Dirty Laundry _

The two of them sat cross legged on top of two adjoining washing machines. Draco had removed his tie, Hermione was barefooted. They were connected by their touching knees, their intertwined hands. They never broke eye contact.

Around them, the Laundromat was silent, but for the rumblings and growling of the active washers and dryers. The one other patron who had been there had left as soon as they entered, seeing their hand holding and - correctly - assuming the worst.

"Your white work shirt?" Draco selected a garment from the tower of laundry beside them.

"This pile." Hermione pointed, keeping her free hand entwined with his. He threw, squeezing her hand with his own spare one.

"Dark jeans?"

"That one."

It hadn't felt right to have this conversation back at the apartment. The couch was his, the bedroom was hers, the kitchen was his, the table was hers. They needed to be on neutral ground, and where better?

"Do we have enough change?"

Draco brandished a sock, jangling with silver coins. "We can thank Mister Piggy for that." The shards of smashed piggy bank were still on the coffee table back at the apartment.

"So, shall we air our dirty laundry?"

Taking the initiative, being the stronger person for once in his life, he went first. "I was using Esmeralda to make you jealous."

"Yes. I... know."

"Your turn."

"It worked."

Her voice cracked, the tiniest bit. He tightened his grip on her hand.

"I walk around the apartment naked on purpose."

"I can never draw my eyes away when you do."

"I hated Adam with every fibre of my being, ever since I met him. I couldn't stand that he got to touch you, to kiss you, and that I was stuck being the amusing roommate."

"You were always more than that," she murmured, her thumb gliding over the smooth skin of the back of his hand. "I hated seeing you and Adam together, because all I would do was compare you." She muffled something, a noise deep within her throat, and her next words came out a squeak. "You always won, every time."

"Hermione, I..." Their faces, still maintaining that piercing eye contact between her brown and his silver-blue, grew closer, almost touching. Lips, longing-

One of the washing machines gave an irregular bang, shuddering for a moment before continuing its cycle. The abrupt sound startled them both, making them sit straight again. It felt like there were miles between them, now.

"Last night," she resumed, swallowing, "I couldn't bear to sleep with Adam, knowing that you were screwing that other girl."

He was already shaking his head. "I didn't, I would never."

For a moment, her dry wit seeped back into the conversation. "Well, I never. Draco Malfoy, actually exercising restraint?"

"A momentous occasion."

They both smiled. Everything was normal again.

"Last night," he confessed, "I slept in your bed because... I just... just wanted to be close to you."

She nodded. "I figured. I wanted to hear you say it."

"When we kissed, that night at the inn in Diagon Alley, I thought it was the best kiss of my life. Until we kissed in France."

"I didn't view kissing you as cheating on Adam," she finally admitted, her head hanging. "I thought of kissing him as cheating on _you_."

"So did I," he murmured, one hand separating from the bundle to rest on her bare arm.

Without thinking, they went back to laundry. He threw a black shirt into the darks, she distinguished between the piles of shirts with writing and shirts without. The room was surrounded by the small piles of their washing, covering the linoleum floor. The bright fluorescent illuminated them both.

The other laundry too, was continued after a short, silent break.

"I stole the contents of your phone," he told her, "intending to plot against Adam. I never could."

"Sex scandal?"

"Second family in Salisbury, I was going to go for, actually."

She nodded knowingly, and told him, "I liked you having to depend on me, because it meant that you were more mine than anyone else's."

For hours they went on, until the pile of unsorted laundry beside them had shrank into nonexistence, and the molehills that dotted the floor had transformed into mountains of perfectly sorted colour. They had extinguished every secret between them, everything about Adam and their traditions and why they had done some of the things they had done...

And then, there was nothing left.

They moved to the floor, to start throwing their laundry into several washing machines around the room. Both tried to rack their brains for something that had been forgotten, something they didn't both know, something the other needed to hear. They came up with nothing.

Or, Draco came up with nothing. He had always been a little bit slower.

Hermione had an idea in her head - he could tell by her expression - and it was one of those things that she was going to make him work for, that she couldn't just tell him. He studied her face, trying to figure out what she wanted to hear.

Finally, she got fed up. "Was there something you wanted to _tell_ me, Draco?" she prompted.

His eyebrows drew together, thinking so hard it pained him. What had he done that was naughty or deceitful that he hadn't told her? And, whatever that was, how did she know about it?

She picked up a pile of jeans and viciously hurled it into a nearby washing machine. Glaring at him out of the corner of her eyes, she asked against, in a forced tone, "_Draco?_ Are you _sure_?" as she threw another bunch of clothes into a washer.

It hit him, like a light bulb flashing neon and distracting in his head. "Ooh, right!" he exclaimed, finally realising. He edged towards her, taking one hand. They were so close that Hermione fell backwards onto the nearest pile of clothing, letting out a muffled shriek of surprise as she slipped. Draco couldn't help but laugh, seeing Hermione lying on her back on top of their combined shirts. At first, she shot him a dirty look, until she saw the humour and laughed with him.

He took advantage of her position and lowered himself down to her. Their faces were almost touched, him supporting his weight over her with his elbows, and he whispered in her ear, "I love you, did you know?"

"I had an inkling," she whispered back, "but it's nice to hear."

She reached up, using one hand to pull his head down to meet hers. Their lips collided, not drunken and vague like in the Leaky Cauldron, and not passionate and wild like it had been in France. This time, it was sweet and gentle, still with the flaming sparks as their lips and tongues probed and fought, but with an undertone of soft triumph.

"You should probably know," Hermione murmured, breaking apart briefly to look at him, "I love you too."

Hearing the words was the single happiest moment of his life. He gripped her tightly, one hand skimming over her back, the other on her waist, as they sat up. She kissed him fiercely, pushing him against a washing machine. He kissed her back, hard, taking it up a notch. It was a game of back and forth - yes, another game - and they were both smiling broadly every time they weren't joined at the lips.

"This is good," she said at one point. "This is going to work."

"It bloody well better," he told her with a smile, "or where in hell am _I_ meant to live?"

She laughed, the washing machines rumbled, the sock of coins lightened, and everything ran its course. They fell into their old routine, laughing and sniping, except that now there was kissing and touching and talking properly.

They were, of course, in typical Draco-and-Hermione fashion, arguing over what to do with the living room. Since it was automatically assumed that he would share her bed, they had a spare foldaway couch and nothing to do with it.

"I _hate_ that couch, Draco. I don't know how you lived on it for so long. It's awfully uncomfortable."

"But it has _characters_, and _memories_! We can't just turf it out! Besides, then where will we eat on Movie Fridays?"

"We can get a _new_ one. A _pretty_ one."

"Hey, _you_ chose it, not me!"

"And I've changed my mind about it!"

"Well, I _like_ that couch!"

"Oh, bickering like an old married couple already?"

The door whipped open, sending in the cold wind of a foggy London day and a half dozen Death Eaters. Their cloaks billowed around them, black and as ominous as the low storm clouds they could see out the windows.

A metallic, crackling laugh spat from within the mask of the lead Death Eater. He didn't recognise the voice; thank _Merlin_ it wasn't his father.

Hermione's hand had tightened so fiercely on his that her fingernails, not overly long or sharp, had pierced the skin on the back of his hand. He didn't feel pain, even as he watched thick beads of scarlet blood well up around her nails. If anything, he valued the connection, knowing that as they sat in a Laundromat, wandless and surrounded by armed Death Eaters, it was probably the last modicum of contact they would have.

"H-how did you find us?" Hermione demanded. He sensed the strangled fear in her voice; felt her trying to stall the merciless Death Eaters.

The Death Eater at the head stretched a dark hand out from the folds of his long cloak to pick at his nails. "You should really take more care in who you give your real names to. Having a story published in the Muggle newspaper with your name heading it wasn't the best idea that's ever crossed your pea-sized mind, was it? It was almost too easy, to storm your office. A thin little waif seemed almost too eager to give up the details of your place of residence."

Another Death Eater piped up, his voice sounding stifled through the thick metal of his mask. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Be a little nicer to your concubines, next time. I hear they like flowers."

"Well, you would know," Draco snapped.

Hermione sent a sharp elbow into his ribcage. The crunch was audible, more so when a hovering Death Eater sent a ball of magic that felt suspiciously like a foot into his chest.

"Oh, yes, that's fantastic," he gasped, forcing air through his mangled, crying lungs. "_Really_ good idea. You realise that breathing is kind of a necessity if you want information out of me?"

"Who said anything about information?" a previously silent Death Eater cackled. "Who's to say we aren't just killing you slowly, for our own amusement? Cable's out, you see."

"All that porn? If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. The industry _does _have its limits."

One of the Death Eaters sent a stinging whiplash of purple flame across his cheek. It sizzled faintly, and the smell of his own burnt flesh made him gag. The bile that entered into his mouth, tasting acidic and sickly, was the closest weapon to hand. He spat it at the feet of his nearest tormentor.

"Draco," Hermione said urgently, her fingers clawing at his palm as he coughed from the impact of the latest blow. "Draco, stop being a wise arse. Just, be quiet."

"Your girlfriend gives good advice," a Death Eater commented.

"And I'm assuming that not the only thing she's good at giving." The errant Death Eater, who eyed Hermione up as if she was a piece of steak, marinated perfectly in desperation and sluttiness, earned a slap across the back of the head.

"Morgan," hissed one of his fellow Death Eaters. "Shut the flaming hell up, or I'll make hella sure that's where you go."

"Oh," added another offhandedly. "I'd learn which of your friends to trust. Once that Weasley girl had enough champagne in her, she was almost _too_ willing to give you up. Her little boyfriend, too."

As if given a silent, invisible signal, the Death Eaters fanned out into the room. One leapt onto a washing machine, one swung his leg idly over the side of a dryer, another sat with his legs crossed on a bench. They spread into all corners of the room, spacing out, and simultaneously removed their masks. There was the stout one who had chased them in the airport, the tall one Draco had thought he'd seen slinking by a lamppost, so many months ago... He found that he recognised most of the faces whose voices he hadn't been able to identify.

A vicious smile, curling the corners of his mouth but not reaching his blank grey eyes, came over the face of the Death Eater who took precedence over the others. He stood closer to them than any other in the room, and held himself with an air of self satisfaction and cruel arrogance. Twirling his wand between two fingers, he pointed at them.

"Now, which of you would like to die first? Any preference? No?"


	30. The Penultimate

_First, I offer my sincere and miserable apologies for my tardiness. I've been buried. I hope you forgive me._

_Unfortunately, we're coming to the end of this particular journey for Draco and Hermione. Heads up, there's a bit of coarse language and slight gore in this chapter. Consider yourselves warned, those of faint heart or squeamish stomach._

_Chapter 30_

_The Penultimate_

When the tip of the wand came to rest over Hermione's heart, Draco almost stuck up his hand and volunteered. _Yes please, kill me first, because I couldn't stand to watch her die._

"Why are you doing this?"

This time, Hermione's voice was strong. This time, Draco knew, by the look in her eyes as she cast a sideways glance at him, by the tone of her voice, that she had a plan.

Her eyes twinkled momentarily, reminding him strikingly, for the briefest moment, of _Dumbledore, _of all people. But where Dumbledore's twinkling gaze came off as patronising and a little too omniscient, Hermione's was confident and self-sufficient. She knew full well what she was doing; he often had to remind himself that she had had more than enough experience with Death Eaters.

He remembered feeling her wand in the waistband of her jeans when he had been lying on top of her on a pile of dirty clothing. It was still there; he could faintly see the outline against her thigh. Thank God - they weren't unarmed against this crowd of Death Eaters. All she needed, to whip it out and blast the living hell out of them, was a distraction, a window of opportunity.

He, all of people, was fitting enough to serve that purpose.

His poor ribs. He would miss them, when they were shattered and death-like.

Their lack of response to Hermione's initial question left him with an opening. "Why don't you answer her? Tell her _exactly _why you want to kill us both. To tell you the truth, I'm a little fuzzy on that myself. What is it? To earn some cheap thrills now that the hookers have stopped taking your wizard money? Or something a little... darker? Too many horror films, perhaps? Trying a _little_ too hard to live up to Mouldy Voldie's street rep?"

A unified gasp of horror sounded from the six Death Eaters in the room. Their unmasked faces showed the disgust they felt for him, and their shock at his use of the Dark Lord's slightly embellished name.

"How dare you?" hissed one of them, shooting forward with his wand arm outstretched. It sent a bolt of yellow lightning at his foot, missing by an inch but sending his favourite pair of work trousers up in smoke. A little bit of his heart died at the loss, and he mulled miserably for about a quarter of a second before he rolled to avoid the second attack.

"How? Well, you needn't bother your pretty little head with the _how_. Concentrate on the fact that I _did_."

"If your aim is to distract us from our aim of killing you painfully, you are _severely_ misguided," spat the main Death Eater, conjuring at flaming arrow to twitch from the tip of his wand and sail towards Draco's face with an accuracy to be marvelled at.

Under normal circumstances, Draco would be perfectly happy to continue taunting the Death Eaters and for the most part dodging their return attacks, if not for the fact that the girl he loved was sitting right beside him. Every jarring shock of magic that missed him stood a hefty chance of hitting her. He couldn't continue, risking her like that.

"Draco!" she shrieked from beside him, astonishingly convincing tears leaking out of her eyes. "_Stop _it! And all of you, you _miserable_ cowards! What do you want with us? _What do you want?_"

The fingernail-picking Death Eater slid off the washing machine he had been occupying and inquired, "Would saying 'to see you writhe in pain as you die' be too clichéd a response?"

Hermione's hands wrung out in front of her, wandless. He caught a glimpse of the wooden tip, poking from the pile of clothes behind her. Edging backwards, slowly, while Hermione let out a new ring of screams, he inched out his hand.

"_What have we done to you? V-Voldemort _died_, and we let you free! Can't you just get the fuck over yourselves without feeling the need to torture every innocent person left on the planet?"_

Hearing Hermione swear startled him. What startled him even more was the sniggering that erupted from the mouth of the Death Eater nearest to him. It was the one who implied something about Hermione's sexual prowess, who was now clutching at his side and giggling in uncontrollable laughter.

"You?" he finally gasped out. "_Innocent?_" Hanging on the end of his wand was the black brassiere that Draco had often teased Hermione about, looking as un-innocent as ever a piece of lingerie did.

"...That wasn't funny," commented one of the Death Eaters.

The head Death Eater looked momentarily pained. "As much as I prefer to keep up a united front before our victims, I'm sure they won't mind if we make an exception." His wand expelled a flood of green light that rang out through the room, sending the laughing Death Eater to the floor, his grin still wide across his face long after he ceased to breathe.

"So, _that's _how you kill each other?" Draco commented, feeling his fingers close around the smooth wood of Hermione's wand. "Gosh. So... anticlimactic."

"How's this for anticlimactic?" muttered a Death Eater, tongue between his teeth as he shot the Cruciatus Curse at Hermione.

"_No!"_ The word - and blocking spell - burst from his mouth before he could stop it. The ball of vicious energy, though, was stopped mid-air by the semi-translucent barrier he had erected around Hermione. The Death Eaters were startled into motionlessness for a moment - just a moment. It was enough.

He was on his feet before anyone had had a chance to blink, standing protectively in front of Hermione with the wand drawn before his chest. A list of harmful curses, learnt at the expense of the Malfoy family guinea pigs - literally - were on the tip of his tongue. He sifted through them mindlessly, settling on one at random and shooting it out without a second thought.

The blood that exploded from the body of the nearest Death Eater was warm and copious, splashing across his turned cheek with the force of a whiplash. The dull white walls were suddenly alive with a creeping, slimy burst of colour, and even the immaculate robes of the remaining Death Eaters were sprayed with crimson.

"Now," he advised them gently, "is where you're reminded of your mistake and realise how bad an idea it was to cross me."

Despite his strong front, he was well aware that there were still four heavily armed Death Eaters against one wizard and the love interest he would die to protect. He was vulnerable, in several different ways. The cruel smirks that overtook the shock and horror on their faces told him that they were prepared to exploit that.

"Draco."

Hermione's small voice from behind him was clear in meaning - she understood, just as well as he did, that it was almost over. Out of the fifty-two thousand different ways this could play out, only thirty seven would end in their favour. Not fantastic odds.

"_Draco_."

This time, there was an edge to her voice. An edge that said, quite clearly, with a lot of dignified anger, 'Give me the goddamn wand'.

As opposed as he was to giving up their only means of protection - there was still a trace of the chauvinistic pig in him, after all - he knew better than to doubt the judgement of Hermione Granger. Trying to ignore the moment of vulnerability that this would open him to, he threw Hermione the wand, while the Death Eaters were still wordlessly preparing their battle stations.

The wand sizzled at it was swiped up in Hermione's palm. A shower of blue sparks inadvertently erupted from its tip. It was obvious, in that moment, that the wand was where it belonged, and that Hermione possessed a great deal of magical strength that went far beyond books and studies.

With an expression as fierce as that of a viper, Hermione's hand stabbed through the air, piercing through the thick layer of false silence that had surrounded Draco ever since her wand had met her hand. There were spells flying in all directions from the Death Eaters, but all Hermione did was kick Draco behind a washing machine and stand there, unaided. A long blue ribbon lashed from her wand, wrapping around the Death Eaters, slicing through clothing and flesh and metal, tearing away the very foundations of the building they occupied.

The victims screamed. The survivors thrashed, and rejoined in the middle of the room, suddenly being multiplied and joined by about five fold the compatriots. They bore down upon the two of them. The air was alight with Killing Curses. Draco felt a vague-but-agonising pain strike his thigh. Hermione wrenched his arm from its socket and Apparated out of the destroyed Laundromat.

He was disoriented when he landed, on a soft carpet floor in the middle of what looked like a party. Hermione looked dizzy, burnt, and tired, but opened her mouth and bellowed, "Shut the fuck up, the lot of you!"

Every person, every familiar face in the room - Harry, Ginny, Ronald, Pansy, the rest of the Weasleys, even that annoying McGonagall - turned to stare at Hermione. She had climbed onto a gilded chair to announce, "Harry, Ginny, you're both so freaking dead that you should start digging now. There's a group of Death Eaters at a Laundromat who just tried to kill us. If you don't mind, Draco's bleeding profusely."

"Not again," muttered McGonagall, folding her glasses and placing them in the pocket of her robes before she joined the small group accumulating in the middle of the room. Harry was at the head of it, looking grim and determined.

All at once, several patches of floor sizzled vaguely before more people appeared. Members of the Order, people he'd never met before... Even Blaise appeared, in the middle of checking his watch. Upon seeing Draco, prostrate on the floor, he rolled up the sleeves of his expensive robes and strode over.

"I'm fine," he choked out, catching sight of a messy haired girl in tight black jeans, who was fishing a wand from within her waistband. "Wait... _Esmeralda?_" He propped himself up on one aching elbow to get a decent look at the girl who was milling around the group in the middle.

Blaise's attention was caught by his words, and as Esmeralda - smiling broadly and using the tip of her wand to brush her fringe away from her piercing eyes - approached him, he glanced up at her. Their eyes met, and Draco couldn't help but wonder why nobody told him anything anymore.

"You're a..." Draco began, blinking, because the sight of a Muggle girl looking so comfortable in a magical environment was so disconcerting.

She nodded carefully, kneeling down in six inch heeled boots to inspect his wounds. Hermione, who had fallen back to her knees beside Draco after advising the group conglomerating in the centre of the room, looked up at her.

"Hermione," Esmeralda said gently, holding out her hand. "I'm glad it all worked out."

Relaxing the possessive expression on her face, Hermione clasped Esmeralda's hand. "So am I. But, his leg-"

Blaise waved over a small group of people. "Tend to the two of them, all right? We're going to the Laundromat, seeing as my robes are already _ruined_ by all this blood." He made eye contact with Esmeralda, and together they strode away from Draco and Hermione, towards the people preparing for battle.

A few people stayed away from the battle group in the middle, crowding around Draco and Hermione. He managed to block them out, easily enough, and focused on the group in the centre. It was growing in size, looking about ready to conquer an army.

"There aren't _that_ many," Draco choked out. "No need to rouse the National Guard."

Nobody left the group. Even Weasley shot him a mildly apologetic glance as he strode past, rolling up his sleeves. Pansy avoided his eye, but hurried into the midst of the group that Disapparated, wands drawn, with a pop.

Hermione collapsed onto the floor, coughing up smoky air. Her lungs rasped with the sparks that had flown; he could tell by the husky tone of her voice as she let out an inadvertent shriek.

"Yes?" he mumbled, his head lolling against a pristine cream couch. His hair was ripped through with soot and ash, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the marks he must be leaving on the sofa. In fact, it filled him with a sort of pleasure. It was, after all, Harry and Ginny's fault that this had all happened, wasn't it? They deserved a few stains.

The throbbingly sharp pain in his leg was growing insistent now. He glanced down at it, and realised why Hermione was now vomiting onto the carpet.

A severe wound, carved into the flesh of his thigh with the precision of a meat cleaver wielded by a blind man, disfigured his leg. It was, apparently, the cause of the pain, and of the disgusted gagging sounds from the few attendants who had remained behind. He could see a slice of pink muscle, tense through the sponge-y flesh of his thigh. It leaked blood, gushed it and poured it and spurted it, from the severed artery in his leg.

Poor Hermione. He remembered how she wasn't a huge fan of blood.

"Oh, God," someone muttered, surprisingly faint-sounding, despite the painful tugging he could feel at his arm, at this leg. Through the vague fog that was swirling around, encapsulating his mind, he could hear panicked voices.

"Somebody get a message to Mungo's!"

"It's bloody Dark Magic; I don't know how to fix this!"

"Give me your belt, and if you make an inappropriate joke about my wanting to undress you I'll slit your throat."

"Harris, go deal with Hermione."

"He's losing a lot of blood! Bloody hell, if he dies on us, we're _dead!_"

"..._Shit! It got in my eye!_"

The fog drained into pleasant, peaceful darkness, with a hint of sunflower prettiness as Hermione's voice hovered on the edge of his consciousness, just beside the precipice, murmuring, "Draco? Draco?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Draco?"

Hermione's voice broke through the solidified sheet of darkness, sprinkling the shards everywhere with the frantic tone that quickly came into her voice.

"Draco? Draco, what's wrong? Why isn't he moving?"

His throat felt as though it had been sanded down an inch or so with a thick layer of sandpaper. Swallowing was impossible, as his mouth had dried away any saliva he had possessed. A glass of water was cool at his lips, tilting downwards.

A warm hand scrabbled at his. He grasped onto it, holding onto the fingers as tightly as he could and marvelling at how familiar each tiny feature of something so small as her pinky finger was to him now.

"Hermione."

"Draco." Her voice rapidly descended into controlled calm. "You're awake."

He opened his eyes; the sun stung them. When he had adjusted to the light and to the bright white decor of the hospital room, Hermione came into focus. She was lying in the bed beside him, wearing the same white cotton robes as he was. There was a faint smile on her lips as she struggled to sit up, ignoring the fierce glare of the Healer who supervised from the door.

"What day is it?" he asked blearily, raising a hand to rub at his eyes.

"It's Sunday. You've been out for a while."

"Bugger. I've missed my television programme."

A pillow swung into the side of his head, retrieved almost immediately. Hermione looked comfortably pensive, leaning back into her second pillow.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, just as he inquired, "What are you thinking?"

Obliging to her pointed glance, he answered, "I feel fine. Bit of a cramp in my leg; nothing you couldn't take my mind off." When she didn't laugh, he shrugged, and glanced down at the dressing that covered his thigh. The skin was smooth and healed over, though, when he peeked under the bandages. The pang was in his muscle, which was to be more or less expected.

"Honestly, I'm good as new," he reassured her, prompting her smiled sigh of, "Good."

They both lay on their backs, on separate hospital beds, connected only by their intertwined hands.

"Now, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," Hermione answered slowly, "that it's about time we went home."


	31. Epilogue

_Chapter 31_

_Epilogue_

Persistent ringing from a nearby phone jolted Draco from the reverie he had been immersed in, studying his reflection in the mirror of the men's bathroom. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, one arm grasping the cane that held him upright. He held it to his ear without bothering to check the caller ID. "You've got _Draco_."

"And _you've_ got to change your greeting," Hermione's voice scolded. "Is 'hello?' too much for you?"

"Hermione, light of my life, how goes it?" He rested his cane against the wall and leant against one of the sinks with the phone between his shoulder and face as he picked at his fingernails. There was printer ink all over his hands, from the unfortunate battle he'd lost with the printer earlier in the day. It was dry, now, seeping into his skin. He wondered if he could die from it. Probably, right?

So long as it held off until after he and Hermione had spent a long and fulfilling life together, he was okay with that.

"I was wondering... did you have somewhere you were supposed to be, right about now?"

He studied the palm of his hand, sifting through the notes that he had scrawled to himself in blue biro. In amongst the half finished grocery list, the reminder to start thinking of a birthday present for Blaise, a vague idea to make peace with his mother and the fragment of a song he liked, was a scribbled reminder: 'movie at four, dead if late'.

"Ooh." With a sharp pain in his leg - that seemed to appear every time he exercised his mind - he remembered the event that he and Hermione had painstakingly planned under strict instruction from Blaise, the one that had been in the making for _weeks..._

"Yes. 'Ooh' is right." Hermione sighed exasperatedly, her voice making the phone crackle. "I can hold them off for a while. What time can you get here?"

"On my way, 'Mione," he assured her, limping out of the bathroom and into the storage closet, and grabbing Esmeralda by one shoulder from where she was sitting on the floor. "I promise. Ten minutes, tops." Esmeralda let out a shriek of protestation, stumbling on the heels of her boots as he dragged her towards the elevator, continuing to reassure Hermione. Once he had hung up, she turned to him with her arms folded in front of her chest.

"You know, I don't _appreciate _being dragged away mid-break." She exhaled through her nose and readjusted her black vest, grimacing sideways at him as he tucked the phone back into his pocket and readjusted his grasp on his cane.

"And you know, _I_ don't appreciate having to lie to the new boss about the smell of cigarettes constantly in the storage closet," he retorted, jabbing a thumb at the button and throwing her his most charming smile. "But I do it, because we're _friends._ Is that word familiar to you? It means _doing one another favours._"

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered under her breath, shooting him a glare from beneath darkly made up eyes.

The two of them ran to catch a cab with linked arms, her skin tight jeans and loose singlet serving their purpose in summoning an immediate line of waiting cars.

"Well done," he admonished her under his breath as they climbed in the back. "Now he'll take a roundabout way with more time to convince you to sleep with him."

She flicked a crisp bill between her fingers towards the cab driver's ear, murmuring a sharp, "Get us there in five and there's more where this came from."

The car jolted forward, speeding around the jumbled knot of traffic centred around a small incident. The driver wove and swerved through several lanes of traffic, probably breaking several laws in the process. His brows were knit and his shoulders hunched with the concentration he was taking to his task. Once, perhaps twice, his gaze flicked to the mirror - specifically, to the reflection of Esmeralda's chest in the mirror.

With an admiring sidewards glance, Draco remarked, "See, if only we all had-"

"If everyone had breasts, you'd never get anything done," she retorted dryly, twisting her body slightly so that her shoulder blocked the rest of her upper torso from view. She focused on the passing scenery that she had seen so many times, probably in order to avoid eye contact with the driver, Draco deduced, quite astutely on his part. Ignoring her last comment, he returned to the frequent glances at his watch, trying desperately to slow the minute hand with the power of his mind. He concentrated as hard as he possibly could, with his eyes screwed tightly shut, for as long as he could cope, and then glanced back at his watch. His efforts were in vain; time continued to flick past. So immersed was he in the contemplation of his mind-power's failure that he didn't notice their location until the cab driver stopped abruptly against the curb.

"Here." Withdrawing a few notes from her bra, Esmeralda leant forward, tucking them into the driver's shirt pocket. She wriggled from the car before he could leer at her; Draco was left to observe the lecherous expression that followed her. With a slightly disgusted look on his face, he shut the cab door a little harder than was strictly necessary, and followed Esmeralda towards the building.

Hermione snatched him as soon as he set foot in the lobby. She had obviously been pacing, waiting anxiously for him.

"You little-"

"And _good afternoon, sunshine,_ don't you look ravishing today?" He held his arms open, waiting. A tiny glance at the watch face on the back of his wrist allowed him to time the estimated ten seconds, before Hermione sighed and melted and stepped into his embrace.

"Heart-warming, this, really," came Esmeralda's impatient voice, "but if you don't mind, I have better things to do."

"Blaise is upstairs," Hermione responded, voice muffled into Draco's shoulder. As soon as Esmeralda disappeared up the stairs - sarcastic "_Thank_ you" floating behind her - he bent his mouth to Hermione's and kissed her hello.

"Sorry we're late?" he ventured, voice rising at the end, testing with one toe in the water to see how readily she had forgiven him for their fifteen minutes' worth of tardiness.

With a dramatic sigh, she used pulled him towards the staircase. "It's all right, Blaise has actually been keeping everyone quite amused with his sock puppet show."

"You're kidding."

"Yeah," Hermione responded, with a slight laugh at his expense. He didn't appreciate the intent, but the sentiment - she could laugh again, unlike her behaviour during the first few weeks after their Laundromat experience - remained. "So, guess whose favourite appliance was delivered this morning?"

They had bought a washing machine, mutually, and argued over names for at least three weeks before it had even been delivered. The remnant shock from their incident had left them both with a strong aversion to Laundromats, so they had made their first proper purchase as a couple as soon as they had decided on a name. It had been on back order for several months, now, and had therefore necessitated a demotion to Draco's second most important purchase ever. The small, velvet box, artfully hidden where Hermione would never think to look, took precedence in that particular race.

Recovering from his distraction, Draco exclaimed, "No! Really?"

"She's upstairs now. I thought I'd save her first load until you were there."

"And I appreciate that," he informed her, taking her hand and letting her drag him along.

When they reached a gap between floors, he pulled her gently to a halt with the hand clasped in his.

"Hermione?"

She glanced up, signalling her attention with a slight change of expression in her eyes. The past few months had been spent in recovery, and in learning - he had gotten to know even the tiniest fragment of her being, everything he could possibly think of. He had known her well before, impossibly so, but with the introduced aspect of love in their relationship, he made new discoveries every day. He had learnt that when he kissed her stomach, she burst into laughter at the sensation, and that she liked for him to touch her hair while they kissed, and that she enjoyed shared showers.

Basically, she was his dream girl.

But he could have told you that.

-o-o-O-o-o-

An hour later, the lights were dim, the mood was tense, and Draco was trying to feel Hermione up in the dark at the back of the makeshift theatre their apartment had been transformed into.

"Draco!" she hissed, her voice breaking through the buzzed murmurs of their excited friends. The sound of fierce palm hitting cowering hand reverberated through the room, amplified by the brilliant acoustics that Blaise had so proudly concocted with Esmeralda. _This_ sound was enough to quiet the murmurs and draw a tidal wave of turning, accusatory heads that all directed their attention towards Draco.

Once he had assumed the appropriately sheepish position, slumped on the same old couch beside Hermione, he could fade back into more or less anonymity in the crowded room that was bulging with people. His friends - well, Hermione's friends who he was obligated to hang out with - were crammed into their living room, on assorted rugs and cushions and armchairs and stools that had been dragged from every nook and cranny, magic and no. Even Harry and Ginny were snuggled in a corner, on one of Draco's lesser loved quilts because he didn't want the baby exploding from Ginny's stomach on a good one.

Blaise was in the place of honour on an armchair, leaning towards Esmeralda as they whispered conspiratorially together. Draco pointed them out, with a wave of the cane he had been reduced to using, and Hermione gave a worried, "Well, that can't be anything good."

"Ladies and gentleman," Blaise announced suddenly, already standing, glass in hand. "I cordially welcome you, one and all, to the first ever screening of my new film. Before you're wowed by my acting ability and glistening abs, I'd like to propose a toast." Accordingly, everyone raised their glasses, in correspondence with his. "Firstly, to Esmeralda - without her, my director never would have allowed us to see the film without his presence. Also, to Hermione and Draco - healed and newly recovered, they're more disgustingly in love than ever before. They also let us crash their living room. So, hear hear, and let the movie _begin!_"

Draco gave a slight eye roll at Blaise's toast. Hermione, on the other hand, sent her hand shooting into his chest. "Play nice, Draco," she whispered. "He's trying to be polite. Now, you're going to make this night enjoyable for us all, aren't you?" Without another word, she settled into the offending chest, set his arm around her middle, and focused on the projected screen on the bare wall.

He could have argued with her. He could have made a perfunctory innuendo - which would be more like him than any other reaction he could fathom. He could have whispered something seductive into her ear and made her blush that exquisite shade of pink.

He didn't.

This was _Hermione_ - a little bossy, yes, but brimming to capacity with qualities that never ceased to amaze him. So, he touched the top of her hair, lightly, and tightened his grip around her, and settled against the back of the uncomfortable sofa in the living room of the apartment they shared. Nine months ago, he would never have considered this: living with - _loving_ - his primary school enemy. Now? She had found him, and she had rescued him. Now, he couldn't imagine living any other way.


End file.
